


Bright Star (Or: a series of love letters from various Black Butler babes)

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (and Undertaker), (and Vincent), (and also Claude), (mainly because of Sebastian), Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Love Letters, Romance, but mainly super sweet, overly indulgent fluff, with some seduction involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 77
Words: 52,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be prepared to be wooed and courted by the cast of Black Butler as they address to you, dear reader, various love letters and notes, professing their deepest admiration and affection. </p><p>- Feel free to request love letters from characters not mentioned. I'm game for just about anything :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To impress my affection upon you (Sebastian)

_To: Lady (Y/N) (L/N), Duchess of Brighton_

  
  
Most gracious Lady (Y/N),   
  
I do apologize for being so very forward in my address towards you but it simply cannot be helped. To have seen you at Viscount Druitt's ball was a revelation - dressed as you were, like a delicate iris blossom in full bloom. Your footsteps never seemed to touch the ground, so graceful you were that I was near convinced to have seen Titania* reborn.   
  
All facades faded when you turned to look at me, your pearlescent skin glowing under the crown lights. The chandeliers were crystal and gilded gold, sparkling like sunbeams on the Atlantic - and yet...your beauty outshone even that. I understand if such praise may seem frivolous to you - simple, even, coming from the hand of a mere servant. But allow me one chance to give myself to you for if I do not, my heart would surely burst from grief.   
  
There is nothing I can say that could accurately represent the accession my mind and feelings underwent. For so long I thought myself without a soul, condemned to prey upon the light of others. But one glance from you - one smile, one touch - and I find myself bathed in scripture, yearning to believe in something purer - you.   
  
Dearest (Y/N), I cannot fathom how you must be feeling - disgust? Aversion? Repulsion, perhaps, by the ardor shown by me, the butler of a nobleman whose reputation proceeds him? Nevertheless, I would beg you to save me one dance at the upcoming soiree held by the Marquess of Scotney so I may smile with you again and forget my nature for a little while longer. Should the world collapse at this very moment, I would shield you from the crumbling foundation and take you away to the realm of eternal night and crown you my queen for all time.  
  
Won't you do me this one favor, dearest heart? 

  
  
Affectionately yours,  
  
S. Michaelis  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Titania refers to William Shakespeare's fairy queen in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. 
> 
> A/N: Feedback? Yay? Nay? "What the hell is this" hey?


	2. A deprivation of reason (William)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive! A love letter writ by one William T. Spears after an unfortunate (or perhaps fortunate) accident involving two dropped journals and an innocent mixup.

_To: Miss (First Initial) (L/N)_

 

Dear Miss (L/N),

I do not profess to know who you are directly for we met only briefly last night, at the gala held by Earl Charles Grey. Though you may think this letter abrupt and commonplace, I must write to inform you that we have had a mixup of journals. I did not realize the slim, leather-bound tome I held in my hands (after we ran into each other) was yours. I, of course, would have rectified this error immediately had I been given time to properly read and examine it; alas, the hour was late and I had an early start come the morrow.

Rest assured, Miss (L/N), I did not delve into these ideations of yours as some might. The respect I have for a lady of your stature far exceeds the petty curiosity of the menial consciousness. Something, I’m sure, you would understand given how you so tactfully relieved yourself of the drunken horde. (Gentlemen, I believe, should have no more than two drinks if they wish to woo a lady of worth. I myself abstain from the act entirely.) However, I must be forced to admit that in light of this serendipitous confusion, we shall have to meet again sometime in order to receive our respective books. Though such a task might be trusted to a servant or loyal footman, I find that the words and rhetoric of the heart are two of the most precious effects one can have. Thus, may I be so bold as to conjecture that you too, as a woman of grace and decorum, might agree?

We did not speak much after that succinct pause in which our works were accidentally exchanged, yet I could not help but notice you were an admirer of Keats. The words you spoke were overheard by me (purely by chance and, if I may—your lark swift voice rose high above the tepid tones of the other women surrounding you) and the battle you engaged in defending his work was admirable. So few take the time to read Keats’s true lyric—the ones that go beyond maudlin yearning—and _To Autumn_ is one of my favorites. Perhaps, if you find yourself free for an afternoon’s hour, we might discuss the seasonal task that Keats transformed into a harvest of gold? (Do excuse my poor prose. I do not find myself in a position to write these things often but, in this singular case, I am compelled—almost urged on by Philotes—to do so. Truly, this trifled effort was only done to express the sincerity of my request to you.) I must add, however, that the countryside has always held an arcadian appeal to me.

Nevertheless, I see that my attempt at a brief note has grown lengthy and rather overdone. However, if you would be so gracious (as I know you are—though, once again, I find that my pen has slipped from my hand and writ for me lines that are most presumptuous) as to send a reply within the week, I should be most grateful. Rest assured, I shall keep your journal safe. 

To close, might I add,  _And still more, later flowers for the bees,/ Until they think warm days will never cease,/ For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells._ It never occurred to me until now that in spite of the frigid January gales, I felt only warmth when I spoke to you. 

 

Regards, 

 

William T. Spears

 

P.S. I do hope I have not overstepped my bounds for beneath this letter I have enclosed a copy of _Ode to Psyche._ The prose, I find, is suitably beautiful and which, in my mind, reflects the vivacious artistry of yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whoo, I had a hell of a time getting William’s tone right (and even now I’m not sure I did out favorite managerial Reaper justice), striking a balance between restrained affection and controlled decorum. It’s not as showy as Sebastian’s letter but then again, when has Will ever wanted to be on the same plane as that devious demon? ;) Will’s far too elegant to spill his guts out so recklessly! (This wasn't supposed to be posted until Friday but...)
> 
> \- Keats, of course, refers to John Keats (1795 to 1821) one of the premiere Romantic poets of the late 18th and early 19th centuries. His poems are best known for their sensuous imagery and conflicting perspectives. What I see Will enjoying most about Keats’s work is the self-conscious thought Keats imbued in each poem combined with his dry, ironic wit. 
> 
> \- ‘To Autumn’ is a beautiful, eloquent, and utterly bucolic poem of gold and harvest. It describes a present scene while also evoking the whole of autumn itself (who manifests as a female goddess). I’d think Will would like this poem simply because autumn is a time to reap what you’ve sown months prior. To reap a fruitful harvest, one must be dedicated, hardworking, and focused—all things that encompass Will and might be what he finds admirable in humans. Thus, I’d like to think Will would enjoy the common laborer more than the blue-blooded aristocrat because the laborer works day in and day out, without expectation of luxury, and with only the desire to continue on. (Sorry if this point became a mini analysis on him, LOL.)
> 
> \- Also William’s attempt at using poetic prose in a letter? That’s practically him putting his heart out on a silver platter. (Can anyone feel Will becoming flustered when his heart takes control of his pen at times, causing our dear Reaper to reveal a bit more than he’d like?) 
> 
> \- Philotes: the Greek goddess of affection. 
> 
> \- Arcadia: referencing the idyllic paradise described by the poet Virgil in ‘Eclogues’. 
> 
> \- "And still more..." this comes from Keats's 'To Autumn' 
> 
> \- ‘Ode to Psyche’ is the staple of this love letter. It’s by Keats and tells the story of Eros and Psyche, a god and a human who loved each other so much they defied Eros’s mother—Aphrodite—to be together. This poem has Keats’s narrator attempting to resurrect Psyche while envisioning himself as Eros—creating love for oneself. (cough William cough) 
> 
> Anyone else have a request? I freaking love writing these love letters ^^ (and if you wish, specify a genre! Fluff, angst, first time meeting, elopement planning…etc.)


	3. My greatest torment in love (Claude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude Faustus - the stoic, cold, apathetic demon of halifax - writes a love letter. To you. However did you manage to steal his heart?

_Miss (Y/N) (L/N)_

_1 Black Winston Hall_

_Heswall_

_BOURNEMOUTH, CHESHIRE*_

 

In regards to Miss (Y/N) (L/N),

Greetings and salutations, Miss (L/N) of Black Winston Hall. Let me first say that while you do not know who I am, you shall soon enough. Though our emotional apex has been reduced to a concise and all too brief greeting in the passage of my employer’s ballroom, you have not left my mind. In fact, you consume my waking days. I was indifferent towards the ball my master wished to hold, seeing it as frivolous and charmless but then, by some twist of fate, _you_ arrived. I would not describe the moment as a miracle—such heavenly graces are not attached to beings like myself—but it was bewitching all the same. 

To put it quite bluntly, you intoxicate me. The spell you have woven has forced me to enter into a covenant I never wished to acknowledge. There is no part in me that wants this grotesque and cloying emotion to take over but—I _yearn for you._ Each night, as soon as the water silk sun sets, I look out the window and half expect to see you there, dressed in splendid gold, awaiting me. Had I the choice, I would abandon all pretense of servitude here at Trancy Manor and go to you directly. My darling little spider, won’t you wait for me a little while longer?

No matter, I _will_ have you soon enough.

I saw you dance, in fact, at the soiree—and what a talented little danseuse you are. You have mastered the Viennese waltz, perfected the foxtrot—you, little spider, seem to walk on air. Did you despair when your dance partners left you? Fret not, as they disappeared against their will. You are lovely—they were filth. I had to rectify the gross indecency...how you allowed them to _touch_ you. It was odd for me, to take action without heed. But, I suppose, you are already mine. 

Despite this, there is nothing about you I _should_ find appealing—oh, your beauty radiates and your full lips demand kissing but what is it about you that makes me, the physical entity, delirious? You have struck madness into my body and for that, I shall never forgive you—not until I have you safe in my arms, of course. Only then may I reconcile reason and heart, with you by my side for all eternity.

Drink and eat well, (Y/N). You mustn’t fall ill. 

Oh, procurer of my heart, how everything frustrates me now that you’re no longer here. I do not care for my master, I do not care for the other servants, I do not care for much at all.

Except you.

How I wish to consume you, utterly and completely—in every way I can, on every surface available. 

 

Ever yours as you are ever mine,

 

C. Faustus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Before 1974, Heswall was part of the county of Cheshire. Today, it's a part of the county of Merseyside. 
> 
> A/N: Does this seem weirdly obsessive, outright wanting, and tinged with a touch of Claude-level creepiness? Cause that’s what I was trying to go for. Claude’s not a romantic—but he will be for the right girl! (Seriously, whoever wields this power over Claude: be careful! You’ve got a psychotic killing machine who’s ready to kill/exterminate at your immediate say-so! I’m impressed!) 
> 
> Also, who here wants to see an Alois letter? You’ve got the butler, now lets see the master ;)


	4. On the hydrogen jukebox (Ronald)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet playboy/party boy extraordinaire Ronald Knox at a New Year's bash. You're the professional, ever efficient office manager whose got a wild side. Ronald's the only guy fortunate enough to catch a glimpse. He falls. Hard. 
> 
> For BlackButlerFan13

Hey dove—

Sorry for the state of this letterhead but Millie’s little get together turned into something of an impromptu Mardi Gras celebration. I can’t believe I’m saying (writing?) this but I’ll be glad if old Will ever gives me an assignment to the US—in fact, I might just move down to New Orleans permanently if it didn’t mean I’d have to leave you. Call me a sap, call me a dupe, call me whatever you like—I’m fairly certain this is not the most embarrassing thing I’ve told you. After all, it takes a lot to get me drunk and Janine didn’t spare any expense with that New Year’s bash did she? We got _wild,_ a regular cult of Bacchus.

And, to tell you the truth, I don’t usually do this. I don’t write. Not often, not at all. Maybe telegram. (But it’s hard to train those pigeons so I usually just try to borrow one of Will’s. He calls that “stealing” though I prefer “creative lend leasing”.) Anyway it’s all pointless now because I’ve already started this letter on the back of Millie Trudeau’s personalized stationary that’s been crumpled, shoved into my coat pocket, and side stained with morning coffee. (If it smells like Russian vodka, feign ignorance. I think the liquor scent seeped in through my jacket somehow.) The point is, I want you to know that I’m not the type of person who does a redux of anything—in fact, when we left, I was positive I’d never see you again.

I was probably too drunk to realize it wasn’t exhaustion I was feeling but longing.

Three days later I’m at the office and Will’s lecturing me on the importance of time management and I’m feeling awful. Wretched. I’ve never cared for Will’s lectures before (and I certainly didn’t then) but I really could not bring myself to tolerate it. I was looking around, trying to find something that would reclaim my focus and—there you were. Standing by the secretarial pool with a binder in hand, pen tucked behind your ear, and dark hair swept up. (I don’t like calling them “love marks” but with you, I never want to be crude.) This may sound foolish—in fact, I _know_ it does—but after having spied you, I felt _happier._ Nobody detected any change but I sure as hell picked up on something. I mean, I was whistling Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony for heaven’s sake.

Oh Christ.

I _like_ you, dove. And I’d like to see you again. Whether that be at a party or even work—although (and here’s where I can't even understand myself) I would prefer to see you out. In a cafe or a restaurant or whatever other location you fancy. We could have lunch. Or dinner. Or—god, this sounds ridiculous. _I_ sound ridiculous. Where the hell am I even getting this from? This is madness. Insanity. But, in a parallel plane, as a man who should have been six feet under some time ago, nothing is mad anymore. (Perhaps it’s your scent that’s getting to me. Rose and cinnamon and saffron—my spice rose. You, quite literally, flood my senses.) We’re a couple of peyote angels you and I, drinking on tenement rooftops, listening to city dark symphonies. 

Most likely, I'll never find anyone else quite like you. So would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner sometime? (If you’re trying your best to suppress your laughter—go ahead. Smile. I like it when you smile, even if it’s at me doing something completely stupid.) I’ve never had any qualms about flirting with girls before so I don’t know why I’m hesitating here. Maybe it’s because, for the first time, I don’t want this to be a one page love affair. There’s no “us” yet but if there was, I certainly wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d welcome it.

I’d welcome you, (Y/N).

 

Write me back, won’t you?

 

Ronald

 

P.S. I’ll pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Bacchus: the Roman name of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, ritual madness, fertility, theatre, and ecstasy. (Was there ever a more suitable patron for Ronald Knox?) 
> 
> \- I chose the nickname “dove” simply because the connotation brings to mind purity, freedom, and new beginnings. It’s also a symbol of Aphrodite and she and Dionysus had quite the torrid love affair that produced Greek myth’s loveliest ladies: the Graces. 
> 
> \- Yes, the “love marks” Ronald’s referring to are hickeys. But doesn’t that sound a bit too blithe? You, dear reader, mean something to Ronald ;) 
> 
> \- Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: famous for Ode to Joy tune. 
> 
> \- The spicy rose scent I’m referring to is Tocca’s ‘Brigitte’ perfume which is quite literally the most intoxicating scent you’ll ever smell. It’s freeing and romantic and oh-so alluring without being all in your face. The fragrance is a mixture of red roses, Moroccan spices, ginger, rhubarb, and irises. 
> 
> \- Peyote: a hallucinatory drug used in meditation and psychedelic psychotherapy. 
> 
> A/N: I hope I did Ronald justice! I’m not super familiar with his character so if anything sounds OOC, feel free to alert me! I want to stick as close to canon as possible! And YES, his language is freer than Sebastian/William/Claude but it’s only because (and this is my own opinion) the Shinigami realm is a little more high tech/progressive. Plus Ronald has a very rambunctious, laid-back personality so I figured he’d be the sort to write the way he speaks.


	5. Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, a talented pastry chef and friend of Lizzy's, capture the heart of one demon butler after running into him one afternoon. This is his declaration of affection.

_To: My immortal beloved_

 

Darling (Y/N),

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day—I do believe Macbeth of the Scottish moors had it correct when he agitated over the listlessness of passing time. Within my heart can only be two things—the pitch black longing that pierces me through whenever I am separated from you and second, the desperate ache of anticipation I feel when I know that we shall soon meet. To think that my master’s fiancée was the mastermind behind this unintentional orchestration! Your timeliness at Midford Manor was exquisitely coincidental—a self made woman of confectionary and roses. You piqued my curiosity within seconds.

Do you remember the first words you shouted at me when I stood there, eyes laughing, while you came rushing through the door? _“Dear sir, if you do not see fit to move and avoid the cakes I am carrying then so be it—I will not be condemned for your ungainly appearance thereafter.”_ I was surprised, filled with amusement and wonder by your audacity and sharp focus. You were then as you are now: a whirlwind of petite fours and French icing, a profusion of sweetness and alyssum.

What have you done to me, my beloved? Enraptured my heart and taken my black heart hostage? How is it that you did not scream with fear and revulsion when you discovered my true nature? A demon whose sole purpose is to collect the souls of your kind. How have you taken my entire being and turned it upside down, inside out and a million other ways that, now writ, must be tried in the bedroom? (Have I made you blush, my darling (Y/N)? If so, this letter would have served a dual purpose. You have denied me for far too long.)

But I confess that it is not mere ardor that keeps me awake at night but also—dare I confess?—apprehension. I am the spawn of those beastly heathens all men fear and loathe, I am the manifestation of cruelty and hunger. In this realm, I may be something more—I may play the butler and experience the man but, (Y/N), I am living on borrowed time. There is only so much of me that I can give before I collapse back into myself and when that happens, I ask, will you still want me? I could take you into my arms and truly make you mine; I could spin for you a crown of the purest amethyst, interlaced with recherché silver and place it on your head. I want to dress you in a gown of Byzantium silk—darkening the burning purple and transmuting it to black. I want to give you a scepter of palladium decorated with a ruby whose color is spilt from the blood of innocents. I want to show you every inch of my depraved, monstrous soul and hope you could still love me.

I know that if you should choose to burn this letter, it would be no fault of your own. I am, as my master constantly reminds me, a beast. I could offer you nothing of spring though I would bear for you the sincerest truth I know and that is _love._ I have never felt such an emotion before but, now, I cannot doubt its existence any longer. Do you think me pathetic for that?Truly, I ask— _what have you done to me, love?_

If there is no response from you come the next dawn, then I will stay my hand forevermore. But—and let me be selfish here, dear (Y/N)—you shall always carry the burden of my love. It shall not fade or wither but remain constant, steadfast, like the amethyst I so wish for you to take. My heart belongs only to you (Y/N).

 

Ever yours,

 

S. Michaelis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> \- "My immortal beloved"…I borrowed this line from the address Ludwig van Beethoven used when corresponding with his dear love. (Her identity, to this day, is a mystery. If anyone’s interested in shadowy loves and epic romances, check out the movie ‘Immortal Beloved’ starring Gary Oldman as Beethoven and the ever gorgeous Isabella Rossellini. They fell in love on set and got engaged post-film.) 
> 
> \- "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow"…comes from Shakespeare’s Scottish tragedy, Macbeth. (And also from Lin-Manuel Miranda’s ‘Hamilton’ musical. If you haven’t heard the soundtrack, get onto Spotify and listen to it RIGHT NOW. It’s amazing!) 
> 
> \- Alyssum: also known as sweet alyssum is a very fragrant, very dense cluster of flowers with a sweet scent and delicate appearance. Quite easy to grow and its incense will float throughout the air. 
> 
> \- Byzantium: refers to the Byzantine Empire that was a continuation of the Roman Empire. Not only did it survive the fragmentation and fall of Western Rome but arts and literature flourished, with particular attention paid to the medium of mosaics—a glittering, splendid aesthetic that took fragments of glass and other beautifully colored gems to create one defining body of work. (If anyone’s interested, just google up the Hagia Sophia mosaics—absolutely lovely.) 
> 
> I’ve also just realized I've made Sebastian a total sap...his letters are one of my favorites to write because, as a character, he’s just so naturally amorous! 
> 
> So far, most of these letters have been very sweet and doting. Thus: anyone want one full of angst and impossible love? ^^


	6. A damned saint, an honourable villain (Ciel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen's Watchdog appears in front of your doorstep late one night. You let him in, no questions asked, and come the morrow, a letter (one writ by his own hand) arrives for you. You've been marked.

_To: The Baroness Winstead_

 

Most gracious Lady (Y/N),

Once again, I wish to thank you for your benevolent grace last night. Appearing at your home during the early hours of dawn was, I understand, a great inconvenience and I am deeply humbled by your generosity. You asked no questions as to why I, the Earl of Phantomhive, was at your door and for that, you have earned my gratitude. I do ask that you keep our rendezvous a clandestine affair. I have never wished to involve anyone—least of all you—in my darker operations. By this evening, you will have no doubt learned that I am the Queen’s Watchdog and my obligation is to her majesty.

You most likely have questions about the culprit I was attempting to catch and in order for you to know, I cannot correspond on paper. Therefore, this letter serves a dual purpose—it is both thanks and invitation.

Dear lady, if you would do me the honor of gracing Phantomhive Manor tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock for tea, I would be most appreciative. My butler Sebastian will greet you at the front door and, per my instructions, shall show you every courtesy. No harm shall come upon you Lady (Y/N)—this I vow.

Now, my lady, you must forgive me for the words I am about to write. In vain I have struggled to withhold such notions but human fallacy burdens each and every one of us. I have tried to maintain distance from the heart and all its impulsive desires but—how does one prevent a hurricane? How does one restrain the coming of the dawn? There are few people I hold dear and even fewer I think well of—you, dear (Y/N), are the foremost in both categories. When I close my eyes it is your honey blossom fragrance that fills my senses, overwhelming and lovely. 

I cannot fix the hour or the day of when I first began to feel such emotions but let me assure you, they hold me captive. I am unaware of whether or not you would reciprocate such feelings or consider them a burden; if you do, I cannot bring myself to despise you. What a foolish watchdog I am, to have fallen prey to so simple a passion. One that comes with an albatross of agitation and excitability, driving me ever closer to madness.

If you would then accept this invitation, I should like to see you seated outside on my garden terrance. With spacious lawns and dusky rose blossoms before you as we sip on amber hued tea, magnolia trees high above us. It would give me time to reconcile my mind and heart so we may establish an exchange that neither tethers us to insanity nor forces us to sever all ties. Let us be reasonable in kinship for Rome was not built in a day.

 

Respectfully yours,

 

Earl Phantomhive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “In vain I have struggled”…comes from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. (Words lovingly spoken by none other than the swoon worthy Mr. Darcy.)
> 
> \- Honey blossom: symbolizes love—sweet and in secret. 
> 
> \- Magnolia trees symbolize divine beauty and sweetness in love. 
> 
> \- The “respectfully yours” signing off probably means more coming from Ciel than any other flowery phrase. You’ve earned the watchdog’s respect—can you see how major this might be? Ciel—closed off, shrewd, cold, cruel, and callous—has cut open a piece of his heart, showed it to you, and given you his respect. I’m impressed. 
> 
> A/N: Even though I think Ciel and Lizzy are utterly adorable together, I can understand why some girls might want this sapphire eyed earl to themselves ;) so this one’s for all those who wish to be the future Countess Phantomhive—I salute you, my lady!
> 
> Up next: Lord Alois Trancy.


	7. To borrow Cupid's wings (Alois)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confession of Alois.

My dearest (Y/N),

I saw you by the hydrangea blossoms a fortnight ago when I was visiting Oxford’s botanical gardens. The two of us were submerged under a canopy of green foliage, verdure rich and tropical, doted with pink, white, and yellow blossoms. Yet I saw nothing—took in nothing—except you. Your hair was satin and your skin was cream—a virtual portrait delicately painted by Margaret Carpenter* herself. The color, the light—seemingly everything about you was perfect as you smiled so shyly at the blossoms before you, fingertips wanting to touch the blue flowers though you faltered at the last minute. I saw you then, hesitating, wondering if such a thing was permissible—yet how could it not be? Your hands, sculpted by angels, would bestow blessings on even the darkest of sinners, lighting them with something kinder, something gentler.

How I longed to be that blue hydrangea blossom then, wanting to feel your warm silk touch upon my cheek, to caress and praise your body with my lips. Is it foolish of me to think that you might desire my company as well? I could not blame you for answering otherwise but I have never been one to hold back emotion. Some might call me mad, bad, and dangerous to know but why should I care? The only person whose good opinion I want is yours—the rest can all rot in hell.

You must have weaved some fairy’s spell over me, gossamer and light, for when you smiled—I fell apart. When you spoke, warmth and leniency in your tone, I was whole for the first time in my life. You did not address me with practiced grace or thinly veiled disgust; you did not look at me as if I were an abomination or a tool to be used for profit. You saw me for all that I am and still, you smiled. I still cannot believe the affection that washed over me when those four simple words left your lips— _lovely, is it not?_ —you gestured, inhaling the hydrangea’s sweetness.

All I could see was you.

These past few nights have driven me to the brink of heartache and madness, yearning to hear your sweet voice again. I pace furiously in my bedroom, my temper volatile and all my servants—save one—fearful. I have shattered numerous vases and thrown a number of priceless items around as if they were nothing more than lumps of coal. Shoddy, cheap trinkets. I don’t want any of them, I want you. I _desire_ you. Only your touch could divine salvation in me, only your presence. Whatever else may be said, let this phrase be shouted: _how I adore you._

I have never felt so human with anyone, I have never felt so happy. With you there are no expectations, only memories that I clutch tightly to my heart. Truth be told, when I think of our outings together—from carriage racing to picnicking in the wildflower field to me laying my head on your lap as you read Byron’s prose—I am ever so happy; content, at long last, with the contemplation of myself. 

Dearest (Y/N), my love for you is a ceaseless thing…a red camellia always in bloom, its fragrance and beauty eternal. All my love rests in your hands. (So might I beseech you treat it well? You own me, darling (Y/N), wholly and completely.)

 

Ever and eternally yours,

 

Alois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> \- Hydrangeas, in Victorian times, symbolized understanding and thankfulness. 
> 
> *Margaret Sarah Carpenter (1793 to 1872) was a British painter whose soft, realistic style highlighted the Victorian beauty aesthetic—particularly in women. My favorite painting done by her is the portrait of Ada, Countess of Lovelace (also Lord Byron’s daughter; she developed the first algorithm to be carried out by a machine) in 1836. 
> 
> \- “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” — this was actually a phrase coined by Lady Caroline Lamb to describe Lord Byron himself. A dashing, roguish rake whose eloquence and poetic prose cannot be understated. He had numerous affairs with various women (and some men as well). 
> 
> \- “with the contemplation of myself” — I lifted part of this line from the incandescently brilliant F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and Damned. (“She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one—the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was the unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.”) 
> 
> \- “my love for you is a ceaseless thing” — borrowed from none other than the quill of Lord Byron himself, in a love letter he wrote to Teresa Guiccioli. (“But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.”) 
> 
> \- Red camellias (in Victorian times) meant: you’re a flame in my heart. (Really, that’s the literal translation.) 
> 
> ALSO: Cannot wait for y’all to read the next letter. It’s my personal favorite. Hehehe.


	8. Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms (Undertaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are Claudia Phantomhive. This is a letter from your beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lainie (mislainieous), dearie, this one's for you!

My dear valkyrie,

It seems as if you’ve eluded me again tonight—what a shame! I had such a fun game in store for us involving gambling debts and forgotten corsets (really, it was more of an incentive to relieve you of those silken burdens my dear). The rosy cheeked queen works you too hard—hath she no pity for the poor heart of others? Specifically, my own depraved heart that misses you constantly and leaves me wandering this mortal plane seeking excitement—I do mull about uselessly until your next return. (Also, would you hate me very much if I said this was written in jest? Ah, ah! I can already see the lightening in your eyes and the warrior’s reproach on your lips—fret not, fret not! What I said I meant in truth!)

Nevertheless, your visits have been dreadfully infrequent…must I throw you into a coffin, hold you hostage against the black velvet, and then hope dear old queenie forgets about you? I’d rather like to take you somewhere, although I’m not quite sure where…perhaps Belgium? I haven’t seen Brussels since, oh, 1791. Mayhap later. Everything blurs together after a while—though your face stands out. Honey hued eyes, creme fraîche skin—aren’t you  _delectable?_ I am truly amazed that the raven haired beauty of Phantomhive would ever wish to seek me out. Death. It does have a habit of bringing people together, does it not? 

After reading those two paragraphs you must realize that I’m writing to you with absolutely nothing to say. It seems as if my mind’s a-frenzy, reminiscing and wondering. Now that it’s closer to spring, will you enter my shop sopping wet from an accidental torrent, demanding my clothing again?

_“Well dearie, I must say—without your dresses you do so resemble a nebulous void.”_

_“My dear Undertaker how you flatter a woman of taste. I’m swooning now, can’t you see? Blushing harder than a shy June bride.”_ —It seems I will never tire of that dry, droll wit of yours, Brunhild.

Ah! (now you must remember the mystical greatness of my being), I sense a customer approaching. All well I suppose, seeing as how nothing’s getting done here anyhow.

Send me a pigeon won’t you? I do quite miss you while you’re away.

 

Fondly yours,

 

Sigurðr*

 

Added postscript: that body found by the North Alley bakery? “He” wasn’t a he, lovey. “He” was a _she._ Does that make your investigation a wee bit easier? I hope it does. Queenie’s taking far too much of your company while I’m left wandering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> \- Valkyrie comes from Old Norse mythology, referencing a group of female figures who chooses those that live and die on the battlefield. I thought this an apt nickname for Claudia (made all the sweeter since it came from Undertaker). 
> 
> \- Brunhild: a valkyrie and shieldmaiden (a warrior chosen to fight for a host). 
> 
> \- Sigurðr: obviously not Undertaker’s real name. (headcanon) This is the nickname he chose for himself when corresponding with Claudia. In Norse mythology, the valkyrie Brunhild was punished by the god Odin after she defied his orders during a war between two kings—Hjalmgunnar and Agnar. Odin preferred Hjalmgunnar but Brunhild fought for Agnar; as punishment, Brunhild was transformed into a human woman, exiled to a remote castle on a mountaintop, and forced to sleep entrenched in a circle of flames. She was saved by the hero Sigurðr—heir to the clan of Völsung and slayer of the dragon Fafnir—and the two fell in love. Sigurðr then proposed to Brunhild using the magical ring of Andvaranaut, which can make gold. However, the ring was cursed to bring destruction to whomever wielded it since it was originally stolen by the god of mischief, Loki. In the end, Sigurðr and his beloved Brunhild were ripped apart by Queen Grimhild. (A/N: tbh, Queen Grimhild is reminding me a lot of canon!Victoria right now.)


	9. The waning moon (William)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shinigami upper management has discovered that their most prized Reaper - William T. Spears - has broken one of the association's most sacred laws: never fall in love with a human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned: this isn't a happy letter.

_To: Miss (First Initial) (L/N)_

 

Dear Miss (L/N),

I understand that you have been expecting a reply from me for quite some time. I apologize for the delay.

I have no justifiable excuse for the lateness of this letter except that I am, admittedly, at fault. I confess that I did not know how deep your affections ran and, out of solemn apology, must purge you of those misconceptions. I never meant to solicit such feelings from you, romantic or otherwise. I had thought we were engaged in a correspondence of amicable companionship—a purely platonic one.

My superiors have informed me otherwise and pointed out the loving affectations you have ascribed. As I was reading your letters in a clinical fashion, I chose to ignore all other insinuations of sentimental or tender thought. You must understand, miss, that I am first and foremost a Reaper and have a duty to the Shinigami organization and my own self. Other encumbrances and matters of the heart—these can be toyed with by lesser men. I am not one of them.

In fact, I must be grateful to my superiors for reminding me of my task. The relationship between a Reaper and a human is strictly forbidden and I cannot have you believing otherwise. We are, at most, acquaintances. Nothing more. The Shinigami code of conduct strictly states that should another human be aware of our realm, they must be annexed immediately—whether by death or a draught of forgetfulness. I cannot have you paying so high a cost when truly, I am obligated to feel nothing towards you.

My careless behavior was brought to the upper division’s attention through the obviate perceptions of my fellow co-workers. It seems as if your daily letters affected my attitude and a true Reaper cannot be so muddled in mind and action. These words might appear harsh and uncaring on paper but you must understand that duty, above all else, is what carries us forward. It is my yolk and my catalyst, just as your family is yours. You are now free from my presence and may carry on with your life as you see fit. There will be no more need to hide my letters—burn them if you wish. Whatever I’ve writ will be nothing by morning, faded in the light of the waning moon.

Come a decade or so, I will be nothing but a faint pinprick. You will not remember me at all. I, however, will carry on knowing that what I did was the right thing. An act deemed worthy by the association. 

You may keep the pigeon I have gifted you but the higher ups are firm about their rules: he must not be seen carrying letters of any sort.

Therefore, it is with regrettable solemnity that I formally state good-bye.

 

William T. Spears

_London District_

_Management Division of the Grim Reaper Dispatch Association_

 

_~ Draft #4: APPROVED. Overseen by James Stevens, Head of Sanctions and Regulations._

_~ Letter stamped and approved by Senior Director and Board Member J. Edward Neilson. Sanctioned to leave Shinigami Realm at 1500 hours exactly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “the waning moon”…references Percy Bysshe Shelley’s ‘The Waning Moon’ poem. A lament about a woman in a mental asylum whose mind and memories torture her day in and day out and how, like the waning moon, she is but a shadow of herself. (Except it’s William taking her place here.) 
> 
> \- James Stevens: refers to Kazuo Ishiguro's 1989 novel 'The Remains of the Day'. A devoted butler (Stevens) chooses to devote his entire life to serving his lord and master, Darlington. He eventually falls in love with Miss Kenton, the head maid, but is too afraid/duty bound to admit otherwise. 
> 
> A/N: Book of Circus characters will be making an appearance next chapter. Joker first.


	10. The memory of what has been (Joker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker falls in love and says goodbye all in one letter.

_To: The finest lady I know_

 

Dear (Y/N),

I can’t say this letter’ll be as fancy as the ones you’re used to getting. In fact, I don’t even have the proper stationary but Doll said it’d be alright anyhow and—I’ve just made my first blunder haven’t I? Calling you by your first name. Awful shame…my lady? Somehow, I can’t quite write that while keeping a straight face. Who knew English roses could be so bawdy, eh? Aw, don’t get upset! I meant it as a compliment—you’d be downright dull if you kept up all other societal pretenses.

And I probably would’ve never met you anyhow. Noah’s Ark Circus. I didn’t think it could bring me any real outside happiness. It’s my duty to my family, to make sure they’re all provided for. I won’t burden you with my debts—you’re not meant to be weighed down (Y/N). You’re like a dove, pure and sweet and sensitive. Such manners! When you first spoke to me I thought you were niece to the queen. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from a street rat like me but I want to say it.

I don’t want any sympathy for what I’m writing either. I’ve always been able to see myself clearly…I’ve always been able to see my life clearly. It hasn’t always been a bazaar like this—all color, excitement, and life. In fact, even when we first began and I learned how to use a knife and fork proper, I still couldn’t see the appeal. I wanted to make people smile, I wanted to surround myself with laughter to forget—and isn’t a bright harlequin spectacle the best way to do it?

I didn’t have color in my life until I met you.

Sweet and diminutive but possessing so much class I didn’t know what to do with me-self. You stayed after the show even though your horse and carriage was ready. You wanted to thank each and every one of us individually and—I couldn’t remember the last time I met someone with a heart so big. Stupid, isn’t it? For me to fall in love with someone so unattainable. 

You are. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower—never was there so fine a flower. You’re a lily rose, fair and sweet.

But most of all, you aren’t mine to take.

I’ve been terribly, wickedly selfish these past few weeks. Cherishing your smile and meeting with you behind big top tents, wanting to hear your laugh. You don’t mind my way of speaking—you don’t grimace and comment on how I must have lived through the slums. You see past me, even in this self—this shiny, packaged Joker self. You still want to hold my hand and whisper stories—never mind that we’re huddled close to the ground and your silk dress is muddied and I’m useless at getting anything else. Just your presence makes me feel as if there’re spring roses blooming in my chest.

We’re sitting on an abandoned picnic blanket outside the entrance of a circus tent, looking at the stars. You laid right beside me, not caring for your finery and told me jokes and stories and dreams. And all I could do was lay there and listen, trying to collect your words because to me, they’re more precious than emeralds.

But I’ve been selfish (Y/N) cause _yo_ _u’re not mine to take._

You don’t belong to a one armed circus troupe leader. I’m not good for you—nothing about me is good for you. There will be finer men—better men, kinder men—than me. I know you’ll be upset (Y/N). You might even hate me for doing this.

I’m a coward. A lowlife coward.

But I can’t ruin you. Not _you._ I want to keep this little sliver of you, this small memory that still thinks well of me. I’ve never had someone smile at me the way you do. I don’t think I ever will.

You’re my pearl, (Y/N). My only treasure though you’re not mine to keep—only admire.

One day, you’ll remember this orange haired bloke and think about how we laughed. You’ll remember fondness and friendship and for me, that’s enough. That’s more than enough. I’m not worthy of much and I know I don’t deserve your affection…but is it wrong that I want to hold onto it? Even when saying goodbye? You’ll forget about me one day, (Y/N). And you’ll be happy—married, in love, with a babe or two by your side.

You’ll be happy. _And that’s all I’ve ever wanted._

 

Goodbye, love.

 

—Joker 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “sweet and sensitive. Such manners…” this was actually how Priscilla Presley was described by Elvis Presley’s close friends and confidants. A kind, sweet young lady with genuine class and heart. 
> 
> \- “In earth and heaven…” comes from William Wordsworth’s ‘Three Years She Grew’ poem.
> 
> A/N: Here’s Joker! I was originally going to write this in Cockney slang but then decided that might look out of place in a letter. So I tried to incorporate Joker’s rough charm as best I could. (Don’t know if I succeeded but…)


	11. The vainglorious self (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian desires you. Wholly, implicitly, completely.

_To: Lady (Y/N) (L/N)_

 

Lady (Y/N)—

You have told me to stay away, yet your glances say otherwise. The flush of your apple white skin—purity tainted scarlet—allures me, charms me, makes me desire your sweetness all the more. And—aren’t you sweet? The sugary, spiced delicacy of lace and honey; how I long to kiss your palm and let my lips wander to your fingertips, fresh as cream and so passionately greedy. You would stay still, would you not? Like a good little girl as I came to kiss you all the more—my mouth on your chest, my breath hot on your skin.

I can see you now, blushing as you read this letter; your breathing irregular as you press one hand to your breast, body temperature rising. Do you feel discomfort, dear (Y/N)? Your core blazing and burning, wanting me to fill you whole? Oh dear one if you would only articulate the request, I should be there in a heartbeat. But you will never speak of your carnal desires, will you? For you are a saintly, beatific maiden who would never consort with the devil—even when he wants you so. Your soft, soft skin and pale tender limbs—think of how they would feel pressed against me. Your arms around my neck, your creamy body flush against mine while my fingers, deft and sure, come to unburden you—your silken dress slides off your figure, leaving your body exposed. Those cloud soft breasts are chilled, so I take one into my mouth—teeth grazing, mouth hot.

Have you found a bench to sit down on? Are your thighs trembling, pressing together to repress the heat of your desire? I would so love to give you release, my dear (Y/N). All you need to do is call my name—look my way. Forget those pitiful suitors, each unfit to please a woman of your stature.

For what do they know? Now that you are in my arms, naked and beautiful, I hold you close as your golden hair cascades down your back. Psyche awakening, the maiden whose beauty radiated so ardently that even Eros fell from the heavens to be with her. And oh how your body must ache and cry with want, strange new thrills rippling inside you as I kneel down (only for you, dear (Y/N), would I fall to my knees) placing torrid, fiery kisses on your stomach, hips, thighs until I reach the gates of Venus. My kisses become languid, suckling and sinful, for I want to consume you _entirely._

You throw your head back with wanton delight, a cry of ecstasy leaving that rosebud mouth of yours as my tongue tastes heaven for the first time. And how divine it is, my hands pressed against your hips, buckling you towards me while your delicate fingers fist at my hair, pulling and tugging as I pleasure you again and again and again. Are you feeling faint, dearest? Do you feel heat and desire pool between your legs—if you wish, end this game and I will be there to pleasure you in person. You will know what it feels like when a tidal wave crashes against your heart, knocking the air from your lungs as your release builds and—

Honey flows down my throat and I eat it readily—greedily. How soft and luscious your body is, curving into my arms. How you sink down onto the ground, collapsing onto me as I kiss your golden head.

I wish to do all these things to you (Y/N). I would shed all pretense of goodness to ravish you against marble and bark, feeling the roughness of an oak tree against the satin of your skin. Turning you over so I may take you from behind, chest pressed against your welted and lashed back, each thrust bruising and burning your pale moon breasts.

Come now dear (Y/N), end this game and begin a new one—a game of want and wanting. I am clever with my words but even better with my tongue. My hands long to hold you near for I know you are fond of me. How could you not be? I am every sin you wish to commit but have not the courage to do so. Yet should you give yourself to me, you will never know dissonance—only pleasure.

 

Awaiting your word,

 

S. Michaelis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Psyche awakening”…refers to the painting ‘The Awakening of Psyche’ by Guillaume Seignac. An absolutely stunning oil painting of exquisite design painted in 1904. 
> 
> \- “I am every sin…” line adapted from Oscar Wilde’s brilliant novel The Picture of Dorian Gray.
> 
> \- “a game of want and wanting”…lifted from one of my favorite television shows of all time, The Borgias. 
> 
> A/N: This was supposed to be Snake but my Sebastian muse popped up instead so…here it is. I imagine Sebastian writing this after a pretty young noblewoman rejects his advances and being the egomaniac he is, Sebastian just won’t settle. Personally, I kinda like this! Might do one for Claude (but that would be spectacularly creepy so maybe not). 
> 
> Next chapter: Snake (I PROMISE!)


	12. Drowning love's lonely hour (Snake)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serendipitous meeting with the Phantomhive footman results in you leaving behind your gloves (and a little piece of your heart as well).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snake's snake POV's:  
> \- Wordsworth: polite, well-spoken, eloquent Romanticist  
> \- Goethe: introspective, faustian German author of knowledge, very dignified and respected  
> \- Emily: flirtatious, sweet, dream, romantic  
> \- Bronte: more like Jane Eyre  
> \- Oscar: cosmopolitan rogue interested in art, literature, and music  
> \- Wilde: seductive/darker Oscar  
> \- Keats: shy, loving, dutiful lyricist  
> \- Donne: a philosophical, metaphysical scientist and poet

Miss (L/N),

I apologize for the presumptuousness of my address but since I did not know how to contact you otherwise, I felt this was the most efficient method (says Wordsworth). I will not presume to think you remember me but I am the Phantomhive footman. We met briefly at my master’s gazebo in the obscure twilight, the ionic sanctuary of Aphrodite lit by the luminous full moon (says Wordsworth). You had ventured out for a bit of night air, cheeks warm and rosy from the waltzes inside (remembers Oscar), how your loose curls spilled past your shoulders and the sky blue of your dress the only sanctity of heaven left.

My lady do forgive the brash words writ above—it is not my intention to insult or familiarize myself with you any more than I already have (apologizes Goethe). I had merely thought to compose this brief letter to inform you that while we spoke, you took off your gloves and after you departed, they remained on the gazebo baluster (says Goethe). I must ask you to absolve me of this sin as well: you spoke to me so freely and gently, taking such kind interest in my botanical avocation that I forgot myself. I continued without thinking, going on and on about perennials and floras so I am sure you only listened out of politeness…I could never dare hope that you would be interested in the words of a mere servant (says Bronte).

Yet your voice, dear one, was so sweet and your rhetoric so darling that I could not bear to part with you. I could scarcely remember a time when I felt such genuine happiness—when I remembered forgotten beauty (says Keats). You did not flinch away from my touch, nor take offense in my appearance. You simply stood by my side as if we were equals, lifting your pearl-pale hand to point out the constellations above us (says Keats). If this were a starlit dream, then I dare not move for fear of waking up. This is why I could not bring myself to speak more than a few words, when the rosewood trees swayed in tender harmony to the breaths you sighed in loving wistfulness, gaze still apprehensive as you traced moonbeams with your wishes (says Keats).

You asked me about my wish and I could do little but say that your presence was enough—yet that is only partially true. For you see, I very much wished (and forgive me, please forgive me for this bout of selfishness) to have a dance with you.

I have enclosed both gloves beneath this letter and have been instructed by my master to inform you of an upcoming ball where your presence would be welcomed.

I hope my impudence has not offended you, miss.

 

—Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “remembered forgotten beauty”…references the poem ‘He remembers forgotten Beauty’ by W.B. Yeats
> 
> A/N: And here Snake is! (And Wordsworth, Goethe, Bronte, Oscar, and Keats). I assigned distinct voices and personality facets to each snake based on the actual writers (and some derived from just their works). 
> 
> ALSO: My love for Nina Hopkins just skyrocketed after this new chapter. Boss ass babe with a discerning eye who’s not afraid to talk straight to Sebastian? “Nope, that cut is NOT for you - ugh, pale colors are in vogue but they just don’t look good on you!” Next chapter won’t be Beast - it’ll be Nina. Because I love her. All hail Nina Hopkins, Designer to Luminaries, Idols, and Ciel’s Passé Butler. (Also who saw the new pic of Claudia? Isn’t she a freaking babe? I might have a heart attack once we get a peek at her face.)


	13. To build a perfect beauty (Nina Hopkins)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unabashed declaration of love made by the lovely Miss Nina to you, dear reader. (How ever did you manage that?)

_To: My precious cupcake (Y/N)_

 

Muffin!

I shall have you know that your last visit was _quite_ the inspiration. Spring florals— _mundane._ But—delicate Parisian pastels lined with darker velvet and strategically placed gossamer butterflies? _Perfection!_ The theme this year revolves around three particular blossoms—violets, freesias, and bluebells. I find that the large, ostentatious perennials (such as the overdone rose and positively boring carnation) are gaudy and lifeless; why use those when you have the enigmatic night florets awaiting you? So thank you darling (Y/N)—one of the few people in this world who understands the tediousness of the artistic process.

However, do not presume to think that _everything_ revolves around you, dearest buttercup. My three blossoms are actually derived from three unusual characters of immeasurable worth (though they’re copper compared to you, lovey—no need to fume!). The violet is a nobleman who I should think would do well in a world of ermine and cold silk. My little freesia is a fair Juliet (though a great deal less foolish) and finally, my bluebell is a divine show made despicable by circumstance. How utterly thespian, wouldn’t you agree?

If you should like to see my creations then you must come down to London. I shan’t be consoled with a letter and a few of your pretty words—you know how I long to see and kiss you again! In fact, should you remain secluded in that dreary Westfield manor of yours then I shall be forced to find another woman of comfort. Perhaps pretty Mey-Rin—she’s the maid to my darling violet. Does this theory displease you? Then I advise you to make a grand gesture of unspeakable love towards me as you have made me feel very neglected these past few days, you dreadful thing. It isn’t right for you to steal my heart so completely only to disappear with it forever—have you no thought for me and my own sentiments? Around you, precious one, I am an everlasting rogue.

Ah, the bard wrote true when he writ for Romeo this inevitable veracity: under loves heavy burden do I sink. And sunk have I! Down to the very depths of the English Channel—nay, even that is too shallow! The Celtic Sea? No—the waters are far too fickle and my love is boundless! The Atlantic, then, is where I will declare my undying love. I have drowned, utterly and completely, in the Atlantic and only you can rescue me.

Let us take our life preservers and jump overboard—I feel that all our lives have been too restrained. Only you divine in me something spectacular, whether that be your touch or kiss—I cannot say.

I eagerly await your response with all the impatience of a charlatan and all the expectation of a lady.

 

Kisses,

 

Nina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Let us take our life preservers…” I modified this line from the prose maker’s pen himself, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and his last completed novel, Tender Is The Night. (Also my absolute favorite.) 
> 
> A/N: This. Was. So. Much. Fun. Thank you to TheSightlessSniper for suggesting this for me! Nina’s flamboyant aesthetic combined with her progressive mindset? An absolute gift for love letter writing! Also, can anyone guess who the violet, freesia, and bluebell muses are? ;)
> 
> Basically, this letter = a pitiful example of my deep love for Nina Hopkins. She is AMAZING. (Nina’s right up there with Madam Red and Lizzy as one of my favorite female Kuro characters!)


	14. The expression of repose (Prince Soma)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shy, sweet, tender thing like you catching the eye of the boisterous Indian prince? My, my. 
> 
> A very, VERY delayed letter for ThatMysteryWriter!

Greetings my most precious love,

My everlasting sun, the eternal lotus of ceaseless beauty—how I wish to take you away from it all! Take you from your family, extract you from your tedious day-to-day life so you may experience genuine joy as we walk side by side on the streets of Bengal. Oh dear one how you’ve enamored me so! With your soft voice and quiet charm—Agni has been the only one to truly understand me but you! You have deciphered the maze of my heart and now it belongs to you and only you!

I must thank my dear friend Ciel for our introduction—you remember him do you not? The short, blue haired noble who wears a permanent scowl? He’s followed by an unnerving butler with sanguine eyes and too pale skin. But, let us talk of nicer people—you must remember my dear sister Lizzy—you liked her, didn’t you? She’s the pleasant young lady with the mother who can discipline Ciel’s butler. Ah—but never mind. Those memories grow faint in comparison to you. I’ve never had much interest in derby races—why look at a common galloping horse when India’s green hills roam with bounteous elephants and sunset striped tigers? England is quite a boring place, I shall admit that freely. Full of redundancy and rain.

Too much rain.

But then I saw you. I had wandered from the derby track to the nearby garden park and, while I expected to see a few stragglers, I did not expect to see you. Seated daintily beneath the tall walnut tree, its leafy canopy shading your delicate, fair skin. You were dressed in white lace and had a heavy tomb in your lap. You intrigued me so I went over. (And, while I do not think I did anything wrong, something is compelling me to apologize for interrupting your revere with my presence. And also for ordering you to make room for me. And telling you that your book looked dull and tiresome.) 

Truth be told, I do not typically stay still or silent for long. I like movement—excitement. Perhaps that is why I miss Mumbai so dearly—its exotic, sun soaked streets lined with spices and merchants, the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg heady and strong. How everything made a sound! Wrist and ankle bracelets of gold jingling, discount calls jeering, the bells on women’s headdresses chiming—a peppery cacophony of sound that I had grown used to.

Yet your voice alone makes me forget this longing. Your sweet, intellectual voice—so patient and calm and gentle. You do not like seeing the surface of things—you wish to delve deeper, you want to find meaning. And that is such a beautiful thing in this dark English world I’ve come to know. To see another creature who yearns for the light like I do—you are objective in your quest and this level-headed understanding charms me. Impresses me.

And your scent—pears and moonlight and a certain kind of sweetness that takes my breath away, leaves me wondering if I’ll ever see you again.

If it is your wish, I will take you back to India and crown you my princess. You will have luxury beyond your wildest dreams—silks from Japan, gold from South Africa, gossamer from Italy. I will place you in a bungalow of diaphanous red barège with fiery gold damask pillows and vermillion eiderdown satin. Gold-orange sunsets will warm your days and in the fading apricot dusk, I will kiss you very sweetly for I have already grown to love you.

Won’t you be my eternal princess?

My dearest Rani.

 

Yours,

 

Prince Soma Asman Kadar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rani: means queen in Sanskrit. 
> 
> \- If it sounds a little self absorbed it’s because it’s Soma—what are you gonna do? LOL 
> 
> A/N: Sorry for the super long delay but I hope you liked this, ThatMysteryWriter! 
> 
> (Side note: Next few letters may be angsty because one of my favorite characters was killed off on Peaky Blinders AKA, one of the best gangster TV shows I’ve ever seen.) 
> 
> Oh and if anyone’s interested: the flowers from last chapter are…violets to Ciel (depending on its color, the violet can mean a multitude of things which I thought equated nicely to Ciel whose personality depends on the circumstance he’s placed in; in Roman times, the violet was used as a mourning symbol), freesias to Lizzy (innocence, thoughtfulness, trust, friendship, and sweetness; these delicate blossoms are also used to thank someone who has performed gracefully under difficult conditions and are popular in bridal bouquets so I thought it’d fit our favorite golden haired maiden), and bluebells to Alois (just because I know in the anime Alois and Luka used to pick bluebells together; in Victorian times, bluebells also symbolized humility which is what I think Alois did constantly—humbled himself to Claude in the hopes of attaining his affection).


	15. The heavens that blaze (Ciel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel Phantomhive thought his heart frozen - unbreakable - ice cold. But such illusions are shattered with your passing.

_To: Love’s immortal iris_

 

(Y/N)—

Here, I have no pretense. The concord of society has gone and left us—I shouldn’t be surprised. All my life I’ve witnessed death—I have known fatal mortality better than most.

But I did not expect to bury you so soon. Not in this dark grey city. This ash covered field of black grief and dead cathedrals.

I should have never loved you. Nothing but anguish can come from loving a Phantomhive and to have one love you in return is nothing short of death’s kiss. I have, (Y/N), killed you. My serpentine world of ruination and disease poisoned your delicate smile and destroyed the warmth in your heart. A single bullet fired by a coward who scaled up your bedroom window—should I be grateful that it was a quick death? That you did not suffer? Or perhaps it’s better for me to accept this—the evaporation of life, the quietus of being.

I ought to have never left chthonic. I should have remained seated on my broken throne, overseeing the ruins of Babylon.

Now it’s too late.

The violets in your eyes have withered, overcast by the charcoal clouds of London; rain pours down in torrents and streams, submerging this cement city in fog and practiced gloom—a melancholy we have all grown used to. I am dressed in black and sit behind the desk of my ancestral home. I will not attend the funeral. I _will not_ remember you this way. 

Cold, dead, and pale.

You were not meant for silence, (Y/N). Never. You had quiet strength—what was that term? The one so beloved by poets and false writers? Grace under pressure? What tripe. You were more than that. You were loveliness personified, the sweetest hydrangea drenched in snow.

You were a lilac blossom. You were an entire bouquet.

But none of that matters now—and I despise the ease with which I use the past tense. To address you from this mortal plane while you lay in eternal sleep. You are the past. The past is none of my concern—the future is no longer my concern either. In the bleak mid-winter I bid you, as I should have done months ago, goodbye.

 

—Ciel

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Title comes from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “When beggars die, there are no comets seen;/ The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.” 
> 
> \- Chthonic: the official Greek term for underworld. 
> 
> \- Babylon: the holy city of Mesopotamia that fell after the death of King Hammurabi. 
> 
> \- Hydrangea: in Victorian times it meant thankfulness and understanding. 
> 
> \- Lilac: in Victorian times, the lilac was given to the receiver to remind them of first love. 
> 
> \- “You are the past…” said by Thomas Shelby on the BBC show ‘Peaky Blinders’. I find most his lines perfectly melancholy and, in this case, suitable for morbid fiction. 
> 
> A/N: Well. Here’s this. Still catatonic over Peaky Blinders. Also weeping cause this letter is a very cynical goodbye. I’m pretty damn mournful over Lizzy’s fate. I want to know what the hell Undertaker’s got to do with all this. I’m just a bundle of questions and inquiries right now. (Expect an equally depressing letter from either Sebastian or Grell in a few days.)


	16. Lilies of death-pale hope (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is somewhat dark/graphic.) I warned you—when you hold the devil’s heart, take care not to break it.

Dearest (Y/N),

For fifty three excruciating days I have been denied your presence. For a while I had thought it was our newest game—the temptation of want, the denial of desire. And for a while it was amusing to think of how tortured you must have been, laying awake at night, missing the heat of my body…my fingers between your thighs, my mouth pressed against yours.

I have been played the fool. You must understand dear (Y/N), that I do not take kindly to manipulation—I have always been the fox, never the lamb. And here you are—a human with such soft, delicate skin—toying with me as if I were a marionette on gilded string. You never told me and I, as a demon of guile and deceit, can do nothing to refute your selfishness.

You are engaged.

You _were_ engaged. Married so readily, larkspur of my heart? An elopement to Italy—I must compliment your chosen husband on his ingenuity. I had expected something more formal—an invitation perhaps. But you have never been one for conformity. Your restless spirit—your wanderer’s soul—would never give in so easily. And in my eagerness to show you all the things you knew not, I became blinded by my own hubris. Your soft smiles seemed so genuine; your kisses so honest and tender that I had no reason to believe you had a fiancé across the sea in Rimini.

For you, this was a necessary end and, in all rationality, I find your pragmatism admirable. Though you must not forget, (Y/N), I have no patience for repudiation.

I will **not** be denied.

Did you think I would let you go so easily? You have let me sample the ambrosia of the gods—poured golden nectar down my throat, the sweetest apricot wine, heady and full of heavenly grace. And you think that I shall be satisfied with a mere  _taste?_ I am every sin you have been warned of, (Y/N). I am rage and pride and _gluttony_ —and I want _all_ of you.

I want to rip you from your marital bed and force you stand, shaking and fearful in your gossamer nightgown, while I grab your husband by the throat and pull his heart from his chest. The silver lily moonlight will scatter soft shapes and delicate patterns onto your white marble floor, sketched blue by the dark night. Yet his freshly spilled blood—red and thrumming with life—will decorate your bedchamber like fallen roses of the deepest carmine hue. And once his still-warm body collapses onto the ground, I will turn my attention towards you my darling dove.

You may try to run—try to escape the devil—but don’t you know? Death waits for no man, woman, or child.

I will thrust you against your cool villa wall, ripping that gauzy white nightgown from your body. Stripping you bare, exposing every inch of your pearlescent skin. You will scream—whether in agony, want, or hatred—and it will be the sweetest symphony in all the world, a lullaby to soothe my gouged heart. Your hands will be pinned above your head and your thighs— _oh,_ those thighs—soft and milk pale, trembling… _spread them for me, love._

I can smell fear permeating from your sweet wet quim, so aroused even in your hatred. My eyes wander to your heaving chest, the rise and fall of those cloud soft breasts. Take in the scent of me, my precious dove, intermingled with the rapidly decaying organs of your dead husband. Will his passage to hell be a peaceful one? Ah—don’t dream love. I will ensure his damnation. You belong to me and no one touches the devil’s bride.

While you may scream, spit, sneer, and loathe me, your body will comply. Every move I make within you, each thrust and stroke, will bring you pleasure—your traitorous, lying heart will flutter and I will force you to moan my name like you always have. The heat of you—burning hot like Helios, the sun of our universe—pulsing around me, your head thrown back as those beautiful silk tears run down your face. How your thighs quiver in repressed ecstasy; do you wish to wrap them around me? Do so…don’t hesitate.

I am yours, gentle lady, yours to command and kiss and fuck.

Before you, I had never experienced euphoria beyond the catholic fulfillment of soul consumption. But every time I’m between your legs, when I feel release swelling inside me like a tidal wave—I can understand. Lust, passion, desire—I am all too familiar with such terms. But when your voice cries out, when the darkness consumes your self as I thrust into you one final time, I feel _whole._

Can you feel your heart beating, faster than the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings? Through your hazy exaltation do not forget where we stand—in the bedroom of your husband, his cooled body grotesque while I, beautiful and eternal, await your word.

Never forget—this affection you have given me is a double edged sword. Entrance me, trap me, _save_ me. Those are all pretty words for _you belong to me._

 

I shall see you soon dearest,

 

_Sebastian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Larkspur: in Victorian times it meant fickleness, faint of heart. 
> 
> \- Rimini refers to the region of Rimini controlled by the Malatesta family in the late 13th century. Specifically, Sebastian references this as an allusion to the tragedy of Paolo and Francesca who were engaged in a torrid affair while Francesca was married to Paolo’s brother, Giovanni. After Giovanni discovered the affair, he killed both his brother and wife; Dante Alighieri’s Inferno portrays the doomed couple as trapped in the second circle of hell (lust). Ironically, Sebastian’s taking on the role of both Paolo (the deceitful lover) and Giovanni (the wronged avenger). 
> 
> A/N: Er…yeah. So Sebastian’s a little pissed at being duped. It’s fine for him to trick the masses but getting double-crossed by a human girl he maybe has feelings for? NO. Nope. Ixnay on that. (If it makes anyone feel better the next letter will be more lighthearted!)
> 
> Leave a review and tell me what you think about vengeful Sebastian!


	17. Enter the hummingbird (Lau)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In regards to your sudden appearance at a Phantomhive party, the enigmatic Lau takes a strange interest in warning you of keeping to the light. After all, the underworld is no place for a hummingbird as sweet as you, dear (Y/N). 
> 
> For Evans

_To: Miss (Y/N) who lives in a specific district of London_

 

Miss (Y/N),

If I remember clearly, you and a sister of yours (or perhaps a cousin. You shared the same nose but—never the mind) inquired about the Earl of Phantomhive at his last soiree when the little lord failed to make an appearance. I do not quite recall what I said but it must have been quite derogatory for you to have chided me so fiercely. Are you, by any chance, a nun? Pious, virtuous, good of heart…you certainly don’t belong at any party held by the miserable wretches of Sodom and Gomorrah. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to clarify any misunderstandings you may have gleaned from our brief interaction. I must recant whatever was said—however, if what was said was of the benign sort then yes, do remember it. 

Miss (Y/N).

The dealings of the earl, myself, and several others are of a devious nature that I cannot fully express in either conversation or script. I must also edify that while your invitation was a surprise and your appearance singular, you have been marked. And, Miss (Y/N), the attention of the earl is not some prize to be desired—you may think him angelic to look upon and his scowl may instill in you a desire to protect, but your compassion would be wasted. Like the Chinese philosopher Mencius once said, he who tends to the smaller self becomes the smaller man—and the Lord Phantomhive is quite petite.

I have noticed in you elements of Confucius and Chung Tzu (though you are far more attractive than either philosopher but, perhaps, I am being unfair in comparison—you are, after all, still quite young). You possess something regal and, like the spring peony, are inherently good. To a divine bounty of clear streams and rolling, verdure hills—this is your dowry, a place with others who also bask in the sun. Yet the slippery slope of the underworld can stray even the purest of hearts—after all, the Tao dictates we must cultivate our natures does it not? Lest we fall into malevolent disgrace.

I never paid much attention to my family’s devout practices but as a proprietor of trade goods, I’ve come to fear a certain spirit of cruel indifference. He is the lotus root that can turn streams into jungles and if you are not careful, the vines will come and choke you while you are still ignorant.

You are uniquely situated in an indulgent circumstance. What that circumstance is, I can’t remember. Hm.

Well, I would be much obliged if you would join me for tea someday. Englishmen like to think their brew is of the highest elevation (they do tend to forget that it was dear foreign Catherine who helped refine their _very limited_ palate) but even the proudest lord would be remiss to exclude China from the benevolent tea trade. And since you are a lady of worth (or are you a noble? For the life of me, I can never seem to recollect titles), I shall open my _respectable_ tea house at a very late hour in anticipation of your visit.

Do try to keep safe. There is something quite remarkable about you, little hummingbird. 

 

(Oh, and you may call me Lau.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mencius: the Chinese philosopher who immediately followed Confucius. He believed that while the individual is innately good, society and its influence can breed bad moral character. In a sense, this is Lau trying his best to indirectly warn the object of his potential affection to stay as far away from the Phantomhives as possible. 
> 
> \- Confucius: his philosophy emphasized personal morality, justice, sincerity, and family loyalty (and was actually very secular in thought). He believed in self-cultivation and valued human life—two things Ciel took and totally warped. While he did cultivate himself into a shrewd, calculating noble he didn’t cultivate the more benign areas that Confucius actually advocated. And while Ciel values his own life (human), he is far more dismissive of others. (Save a highly select few.)
> 
> \- Chung Tzu: also followed Confucius’s Hundred Schools of Thought and helped develop the philosophy of skepticism. He authored the famous butterfly analogy Lau quoted at the end of season 1. 
> 
> \- Tao: way of being. 
> 
> \- Peony: was known as the “king of flowers” during the Sui and Tang dynasties. Also a symbol of spring. 
> 
> \- “bask in the sun” refers to the 1951 film ‘A Place in the Sun’ starring Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor. It tells of a working class man who longs to be a part of the glamorous, well provided world of the blue-blooded elite. His wish stems from a desire to escape his past and be united with the woman he loves, the thoroughly untouchable Angela Vickers (Taylor). 
> 
> \- “dear Catherine” refers to the Portuguese princess Catherine of Braganza who, in 1662, married King Charles II of England. Catherine is credited with having popularized tea drinking in England and made the drink fashionable in the upper echelons of high society. 
> 
> A/N: Here’s Lau. Blithe, purposefully forget Lau who wants to meet with you for tea. (And he’s even cleaned up his whorehouse for you! For a business minded opium trader, that is as sincere as he’s gonna get LOL) 
> 
> Haven’t really decided who the next letter will be from…debating between Edward Midford and Alan Humphries. Hm…thoughts?


	18. Fire-eyed maid of smoky war (Sebastian & Frances)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack!AU: Sebastian writes a letter to the Marchioness. She's consumed his thoughts and for a demon of imposing self control, this does not bode well for him.

_To: The most gracious Marchioness of Scotney_

 

Most elegant of women,

To praise your beauty would be trivial; to praise you grace, demeaning; to write to you any word of praise that can be seen through observation is a pittance. For you have not captured the interest of archfiends and bishops by physical appearance alone—your flaxen hair and pale moon skin are reminiscent of Athena. Your lithe, agile figure (circumvented in gowns that gently kiss the tender skin of your body) demands ravishing and—oh dear. Have I spoken out of turn? Forgive me marchioness if my prose is poor and my words clumsy. But there can be no doubt that your Bellonian kisses have disillusioned me from anything else.

One kiss from you—ivory, moonlight, irises soaked in gold—and you have enraptured the ne’er-do-well that haunts your late brother’s home. Have I offended you with this memory? Perhaps you see me low and unfit to carry the duties of those before me but rest assured, my dear lady, I am one hell of a butler.

Or is this why you have failed to write me in return? Because my station demands subservience, not dominance? You have always been the most formidable of women, an amazon beloved by Wordsworth. Have you escaped Themyscira to lighten Man’s World? Ah, but I speak too crudely. You have no need for my honeyed praise. Syrup and nectar disinterest you and—why should they not? Lady Frances (may I call you so? How I long to caress that name in a whisper) if I could confect for you the sweetest meringue, it would be too light. If I could cultivate the darkest cocoa, it would strike no sin.

There is nothing in this world similar to your kisses. Your body pressed against mine, my hand at your waist while another comes to free those silken strands from your jade hairpins…and you clutch me close, whether in agitation or hatred—I cannot say. Perhaps both. Indeed, most likely, _both._ Your pearlescent skin glowing as I bend to kiss your cupid’s bow mouth, trailing kisses from petal soft lips to your ever fine jawline—and even lower, to the base of your warm, pulsing throat. Subjugate me, marchioness. I am at your disposal. Let me savage your gown (tear it clean through), ripping it from your body so my fingertips can graze over your full breasts—softer than flowers, rounded and warm with nipples dusky rose. 

Yet before I could, your mouth attacked mine.

Long, elegant fingers tangle in my hair and you pull me close as I bring you near. You bite and scratch and nip and I encourage you. Do not be delicate with me, my lady—claim what is already yours. Oh the humanity of you—the sleeping curves of your body which I desire to learn. You push, pull, take, and harden—like a diamond sunk beneath the sea. In willing admiration and respect do I sink alongside you, to glean what providence has in store if not to crown you Amphitrite. Must you loathe me so? I would partake in your revolution—stealing Atlantis so I could crown you with sapphires, though you need no aid from me.

Alas, it seems that your kiss has intoxicated me and I cannot find enough words to describe my yearning for more. Another part of me rages in terrible fury—fire and pride uncontrollable—as I think about what you have done. I am a poor crusader when denied my treasure and am left wanting and hungry. You have eluded me many times over and when, at last, you give yourself to me, it was on your terms—not mine. Any other man would find amusement in such a game but I have been kept waiting long enough. Perdition has burned the heart out of my chest but you—ever stubborn, ever willful—have left a piece of yours behind.

Hard. Gleaming. _Proud._

To give part of yourself is to declare me your worthy opponent and—knowing you, my lady—I shall have to fight until I can no longer stand. Is that what you wish for? A duel with a knight worthy of your abilities? For until you are defeated in battle, you will continue to elude and allure with your sharp tongue and even sharper smile.

I am no knight—but won’t that make the prize all the sweeter?

 

Until our next riposte,

 

S. Michaelis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Bellonian kisses”…refers to Bellona, the ancient Roman goddess of war, daughter of Jupiter and sister to Mars. She used to ride into battle in a four horse drawn chariot brandishing either a torch or a whip. She is commonly associated with the sword, shield, and arrow. (In fact, the title “fire-eyed maid of smoky war” comes from William Shakespeare’s ‘Henry IV, Part I’ and is a description of Bellona herself.) 
> 
> \- “an amazon beloved by Wordsworth”…referring to William Wordsworth and his patriotic, independent zeal. He was a supporter of the French Revolution and admired their desire to gain autonomy/break away from oppression. 
> 
> \- “In willing admiration and respect”…lifted from William Wordsworth’s poem ‘Address to Kilchurn Castle’. 
> 
> \- Amphitrite: consort of Poseidon and queen of the seas. 
> 
> \- riposte: a fencing move. Another form of counter-attack that follows with a successful parry (defensive block of your opponent) followed by a direct launch into another attack. (Fencing moves: how to gain kudos with Frances Midford.) 
> 
> A/N: Well, here this is. I blame Roturier for getting this idea in my head and creating a Sebastian/Frances muse. Who knows, there’ll probably be more letters like this in the future. Maybe one from Frances. (I also spell her name ‘Frances’ instead of ‘Francis’ because it looks more feminine to me. That and Francis reminds me of Francis Underwood too much, hehe) 
> 
> Edward’s letter is next—I promise! I had a hell of a time getting it right (he’s proper, eloquent, shy, unsure, nervous, and loving—what a melange of emotions!) so it’s taking a bit longer than usual ^^


	19. Love tyrannical (Charles Grey)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take care! Some fine night, the doors will be broken open and there I'll be...I hope before long to crush you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses as though beneath the equator. - Napoleon Bonaparte in a letter to his wife, Joséphine de Beauharnais

Dearest Lady (Y/N),

I find myself in a precarious situation that is greater, even, than the dangers of Napoleon and his conquest of Austria and all its glories. I cannot explain what it is about you that confounds and frustrates me to very brink of madness. All I know is that since our repartee some six nights ago, you have not left my mind and have, indeed, plagued my senses. With every turn of the hour I think myself in the presence of your laughter; with the bloom of each wisteria flower, I think I have caught scent of your sweet fragrance. You are consuming my sanity and for that, even Bonaparte must bow down to you, gentle lady.

I now duel more ferociously than ever before and, last week, injured two knights and a squire—though the former was by choice. Do you see how far your influence extends? Should you ask—should you even wonder—I would cut a swath across Europe and carve you out an empire. Your acumen matches my own, and blow for blow, you topple the gates of Troy with your wit and intellect alone. Your tongue is sharp and the blasé cynicism with which you taunt me has not left my memory. Should I request that you send me your handkerchief? Or would I be unworthy of such a gift? You dislike propriety almost as much as I (so perhaps you would send me the kerchief of a serving girl, for you do so like to humble me).

Your strange alchemy enchants and I fear you have taken me hostage. Lured me to the fairy’s cave and encouraged me to ignore the pale kings and princes, whose cries I cannot hear for there is only _you._ In all your lovely ardor, regaled in a cloak of peonies and lavender blossoms. I see a lily on thy brow and roses coloring your cheeks—I have never disliked the frailty of woman but you seem to defy all sensibility.

How dare you be so lovely? How dare you command such beauty? I do not wish to be subjected by anyone or anything—least of all emotion—but it seems that there is no one who can match you for turn of phrase.

Must I sojourn to the lake alone and in pain, wondering if you will ever return my heart to me? Damn it all! Why can you not be Caesar, whose conquests ended in Italy. Why can you not be Constantine, who ruled with marble and kept his pace? Why must you threaten the peace and tranquility of my mind and body like a tempest who lives to mock? But—even Napoleon fell and as you have not, you must be greater than Bonaparte himself.

Should you be my Joséphine? The woman whose name was the last word of the great emperor? 

I wish you would free me from this madness so I may cease this foolish fancy. I am beginning to love you and if you do not wish to become Countess Grey, then say so immediately. To keep such hope alive would be cruel and you, dear (Y/N), have proven yourself to be a relentless mistress.

 

With silver and lunacy,

 

C. Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “strange alchemy enchants” — references English poet John Donne’s The Sun Rising, a very sweet poem that prescribes a man’s lover as his world. When the sun shines down on said lover, the sun is shining on the world itself. 
> 
> \- “Lured me to the fairy’s cave” — references John Keats’s poem La Belle Dame sans Merci. It tells of a beautiful maiden enrapturing the heart and mind of a good knight, sending him into a fitful slumber in which he is warned by kings, princes, and warriors to try and escape the allure of the woman. 
> 
> \- Constantine: references Constantine the Great who was Roman emperor from 306 to 337. 
> 
> \- “The woman whose name…” — it’s true! Napoleon Bonaparte’s last words were “France, Army, Head of the Army, Joséphine.” 
> 
> \- I also chose for Charles to give references to Napoleon simply because in England, during the Napoleonic Wars, Bonaparte was painted as a dangerous tyrant poised to invade. Similarly, Grey subtly relays how, like Napoleon, you have invaded his mind and heart with impunity and, try as he might, he cannot rid himself of you. (Fun fact: there’s a portrait of Napoleon’s stepdaughter, Hortense, hanging in Ash Lawn-Highland, home of fifth US president, James Monroe. Apparently, Monroe’s daughter, Eliza, was friends with Hortense when they attended school together in France.) 
> 
> A/N: Guys, guys, guys—give me some requests! Either that or we’ll just end up with a ton of Sebastian’s monologues. 
> 
> And I know, I know—this was supposed to be Edward’s letter but…well…I somehow wound up with this. Originally Edward’s letter was going to be a very proper note to his beloved (interspaced with poetry from Alexander Pope and references to the water lily) but I didn’t like how it turned out so I scrapped it all. Then I wrote an angsty Edward one but decided the whole melodramatic cliche of tuberculosis was a little too common. Then I sketched an outline of a letter Edward writes after the whole Campania incident but realized it made zero sense so I deleted that as well. So…please accept this humble Charles Grey offering and I’ll get back to you on the Edward, yeah? ^///^


	20. Silver moonlight near (Gregory Violet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Violet's always written odes to nightingales and peony flowers. But his letter to you might just surpass them all.

Dear Miss (L/N),

I will start this letter with an apology for it is not in my nature to be so direct. However, you once asked me how I managed to avoid social gatherings so effortlessly and, at that point in time, I had no answer to give since my elusiveness is a mystery—even to myself. The activity of dancing does make my head spin though that has now become a secondary concern of mine. I no longer appear at the scant few soirees I once forced myself to attend because I cannot bear certain sights of personal connection anymore. I have never considered myself to be a selfish or wanting man but—I should like to keep you on a quiet moor, where there is nothing but stars above us and poetry on our minds.

You, who are as soft as the falling snow, inspire in me something conditional. A motivation that is linked to you and only you because you provide nothing but fullness and joy. I am not prone to fits of animation and abhor the useless chatter people seem to latch onto as a way to fill the silence. I have liked nothing better than when we were seated on that granite bench, quietly reading our novels, with an inky sky above us and the quiet harmony of a Romanesque fountain behind us. Your profile was the loveliest thing I had ever seen—proportioned like a sculptor’s dream, the curves of your lips rewrite history as you mouthed the verse of Keats and read, so softly, the words of Hamilton.

I confess—I dream of you.

Indeed, this entire letter has been based on a pillar of salt—a useless, futile hope that you might acknowledge me in a similar fashion. I ought to salvage what is left of my pride by ending this here but I’ve never been dispositioned to reason alone.

My father’s estate is a large one and, while not particularly grand, has its charms. Before my mother’s passing, she had commissioned a maze to be built that would lead to a scenic night-scape of Dutch beauty. Silver moonlight illuminates, reflecting off the pallor white of Grecian marble; the maze hedges are of dark, rose thorn green and dotted along it are blood red carnations that seem to blossom whenever the sun sets. There are alabaster urns decorated with sapphire merfolk—the dark indigo matching the blue of your eyes.

I am commemorating a midnight picnic there beginning at eight, when the sun’s rays have just begun to die down.

You are my sole guest—for this is a very exclusive event. If you would do me the honor of attending (if only to see the twilight beauty of blue hyacinths and marble pedestals near), I would be greatly honored and esteemed.

 

Affectionately,

 

_Violet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “the curves of your lips rewrite history” — Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray 
> 
> \- Dutch beauty — referencing the brilliant, incandescent, utterly subliminal work of Dutch painter Gerard van Spaendonck (1746 - 1822) whose floral paintings are so vivid and beautiful that they’ll (rightfully) take your breath away. (My favorite is his ‘Still Life of Flowers’.) 
> 
> A/N: Thank you to TheSightlessSniper for suggesting a Gregory Violet one! He was tremendously fun to write—particularly since his romance is a more subdued, moonlit minuet than a showy, in-your-face tango like with Sebastian and some of the others. (And I’m happy whenever I get a chance to gush and fawn over 18th century Dutch paintings.) 
> 
> Also! Several new developments are in the works! Might do some personalized letters in a few weeks so who knows! ^^


	21. Blossoms sip the rosy dew (Edgar Redmond)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you speak, the muses sigh and by all the gods I do not know why—but the starry aspect in your eyes, enchants, allures, and makes me wild.

Bonsoir chéri,

Since last night I have thought you an enchantress, one who has weaved such a formidable spell over me that I am unable to comprehend anything else but you. Fair of face with your gossamer and gold, I could almost see the precious halo suspended above your head for who else but an angel could have moved with such ethereal grace? Darling, darling Eden (for that is what you will always be to me—the loveliest paradise man can never hope to touch), you consume my waking days and in your eyes I am Orpheus.

Captivated.

I would traverse the whole of the underworld just to see you smile. Ah—do not frown needlessly! Do you suppose my words false? My heart wavering? Let me dissuade you of those illusions, lovely Eden. If I could pluck from the apricot sun a spiral of gold, if I could reap from Gaia the purest emerald, I would fashion for you a crown—one so luminous that even princes would think I had siphoned it from Venus's vanity. But upon your brow it would rest and when it does, the sun will dim and the earth shudder for there can be nothing greater than the tenderness of your smile. The same smile you gifted me at my uncle’s soiree—the same smile you bestowed upon me (with a rose pink flush on your soft cream skin) while we danced and danced and danced the night away.

You are my elysium with your honest heart and open embrace. Dressed as you were in a soft meringue of amaranth, your hair so gently curled and your eyes—bright with laughter and the amusing warmth of one who has known nothing but summer. How you bewitched me then! I stood there, foolish and lost, watching you from afar while other nymphs of a coarser grace attempted to beguile me with their cheap charms. Nothing could force my gaze astray and before I could even think of what to say, my feet had carried me towards you and—

You did not know this but I longed to press your mouth against my own, holding you near me so I could caress every gentle curve of your body. My beloved Eden, my earthly paradise—I still remember the light weight of your hand in mine, how you did not let go of my shoulder even after the waltz ended. You blushed and looked down and—with bashful sweetness—murmured an apology that ought never to be said. The parting of your rosebud mouth brought about a sultry silence that, even in this late hour, I think back on and _yearn for you._

Would you do me the greatest honor, then, of appearing at my father’s ball four days from now? Four torturous days until I see you again. (And I know this letter has lost all sense of propriety but how can I praise you with anything less than zealous fervor?) When you speak, the muses sigh and by all the gods I do not know why—but the starry aspect in your eyes, enchants, allures, and makes me _wild._ (Forgive me, forgive me darling Eden—have I frightened you? That was not my intention, my beloved girl. Only—do you see what you do to me? How you’ve set all my senses on fire? Why must you be so astonishing as to warrant my complete lack of restraint? Oh, how I do think I—)

Alas, I can see the faint lavender-rose of dawn and must end my correspondence here. My Eden.

Would you give me a bit of affection in return? A letter—just one—so I may soothe my ravenous heart?

 

Lovely Eden—I am ever yours,

 

_Edgar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Orpheus: in Greek mythology, this talented musician and virtuoso of the lyre (he was taught by Apollo) traversed the whole of the underworld in an attempt to retrieve his beloved Eurydice. 
> 
> \- Elysium: a part of the Greek underworld reserved only for heroes and mortals related to the gods. Also called the Elysian Fields. 
> 
> A/N: This letter was definitely influenced by Alexander Pope and Alexander Hamilton—two figures I attribute to Edgar Redmond in abundance. That being said—holy crap was this fun to write! I love, love, love Edgar’s seductive nobility—that charming, gentlemanly visage—because he’s confident enough to be amorous on paper but knows enough decorum to tease instead of stating things outright. Ahhh this was too much fun! (Can you tell I really love Edgar? LOL)
> 
> (Side note: thank you to everybody who left a letter suggestion! I've catalogued all of them and am slowly making my way through the recommendations! In the interim, please enjoy the boys from Weston College!)


	22. The untrodden ways (Lawrence Bluewer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence Bluewer, esq. makes an analytical court case surrounding one very important issue: his attraction towards you.

_To: Miss (Y/N) (L/N) of Sotherby_

 

Dear Miss (L/N),

To constitute the frivolous and somewhat dissolute manner in which we met, I am propelled by both expectation and sense to write to you in direct tones that, in all other cases, would be scorned upon. In such a case I must present you with a tedious prosecution that I myself have personally reviewed in meticulous detail—though this conclusion may be entirely disagreeable to you. Let me present this litigation to you and see, Miss (L/N), if you would not fault me for doing so.

Though I have no great love for the Duke of Wellington (and you will excuse the boldness with which I lay that claim as he is, blood of my blood, my mother’s half-brother) and had not intended to stay for more than half an hour at his soiree. Indeed, I was close to exiting such an event before I heard a commotion of a most odious sort and decided, against my better judgement, to see this sight before departing. Imagine my surprise then, when I saw you dancing in the most rambunctious, inappropriate manner with a gentleman of nefarious repute and—in that instant, like a thought that had newly formed—I forced my way to you and asked for your hand.

You were behaving most indecently and as I have six sisters of similar charm, I felt it was my duty to protest the recklessness of your actions. I must have been mad, then, for you refused to leave and instead caused me to take great pains as I continued to dance with you on the ballroom floor. I am not positively predisposed to dancing. Not at all.

You then proceeded to make such spontaneous conversation that I did not know how at all your mind functioned. You spoke first of German literature with such flippant wit that I wondered if you had practiced such lines beforehand. Then, as we made one turn about the ballroom, you turned to the subject of nightingales and Japanese porcelain and—truly, I shall not mince words, I thought you insane. Completely, genuinely mad. Yet I danced with you still (and at that time I did not know why) and refuted your statements until you laughed and slipped out of my arms.

I could not believe it. To have been left abandoned on the dance floor by a woman whose very sanity I questioned ought to have been the end of it. I should have left.

Yet you continued to beguile and infuriate me with your clever quips and eccentricity that I distilled it down to one formulaic thing. You must be wine and brandy and rum; you must be every liquor known in the court of France for you do intoxicate my senses. You have thrown proper courtship out the window and instead grabbed me with the force of a hurricane and drowned me in strange waters I know not how to navigate. You aggravate me half as much as you charm me and truly, I do not know why I feel the way I do. My senses are heightened and I am acutely aware of every absurd thing you say.

Thus, we have reached the case conclusion. If I were a sane man I would turn you away for there is no woman on this earth who provokes and pesters and…disarms me the way you do. With your ridiculous fashions and ever present smile, I ought to leave you be and turn my attentions elsewhere. But, I fear, you have corrupted the stability of my heart and it pains me to say that though my mind is of merit and strong will, my heart is of even greater affection.

Pray, do not assume me arrogant in writing that. I have fought for as long as I could. Every sentence you strung together—chiming like church bells in May—gave me more feeling than all the tombs and books in the world.

I should very much like to see you again—in a _formal_ setting. Thus, let this invitation be extant to you and you alone—there is to be a picnic at Silvercross, my family’s ancestral home in Wiltshire. There will be horse racing and croquet; there will be women of high standing and maidens of cheeky guile. There will be an assortment of sweets that will be specially prepared with you in mind. Now allow me to reiterate—your response is greatly desired.

 

With great respect,

 

L. Bluewer, esq.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The “esq.” translates to esquire, which is part of the landed gentry title. I imagine Lawrence as having come from a genteel, well-bred but non-aristocratic family. (Think Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.) 
> 
> A/N: Ah, Lawrence. Formal, traditional Lawrence who got his world turned upside down by a convivial beam of sunshine (AKA, you). Love—unexpected, ain’t it? I’m sure you all know who’s next…


	23. Awake in sweet unrest (Herman Greenhill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Greenhill desires to return to you your dropped handkerchief.

Madam—

I have it on good authority that the dropped handkerchief of downy white and pink silk thread (though not initialed) is an affectation belonging to you. As I did not know the address to your person, I was compelled by pragmatism to inquire about until I learned it. Do not think me irresponsible in doing so for, in that moment, I sincerely wished to aid. Allow me to sojourn to your home, then, on London's hill to return it to you.

Regards,

H. Greenhill

* * *

Dear Sir,

Thank you kindly for the immediate response to my clumsiness—I do find myself lacking in grace when in the presence of so handsome a man. You may appear on my porch whenever you would like, though I beg you not to come so late as after nine for I shall be in nothing but my nightgown then. I dislike sleeping with my hair bound so loose will be my curls and, as my bed is close to the mantle place, my cheeks are constantly rosy—as is my mouth. I do hope these troublesome characteristics do not upset you too much, dear sir, as you have been so good about keeping propriety.

Nevertheless, I am very upset that you have failed to ask for my name and in my distress, I shall not give it to you. You must, I'm afraid, think of me as Ivy until you have rectified your error.

With gratitude and insubordination,

Ivy

* * *

Miss Ivy (if I may be so bold),

I apologize most sincerely for my various oversights. I had taken to writing such a note while at the home of my rather vivacious friend, Lord Edgar Redmond, who I am sure you recollect seeing as how he did not stop his romanticization of you for many hours. If you would like for me to convey him a message of any sort, you need only ask. I shall call upon you a week from now, before afternoon tea, to return your handkerchief to you.

And since I have had a great many hours to study it, I did not realize you were so fond of animals. The pink thread—sewn by your own hand?—resembles, very much, a pink rabbit. If you should like to see one in person, my father's hunting lodge is known for its wide variety of game and flora. It would be no trouble for me to send you one of your own.

Fondly,

—H. Greenhill

(Do excuse the familiarity with which I signed off. It is not my intention to slight you. Only, and this is truly no excuse, the hour was late and your letter was the only thing on my mind before I slept. If the writing is smudged it is because I am writing in the early hours of dawn. I had wished to write as soon as possible.)

* * *

Dear Sir,

I regret to say that I do not recollect a Lord Edgar Redmond at all as my attentions were focused elsewhere. However even this phrase is badly said for I do not feel much regret—my guilt is overwhelmed by my delight in having met you (and the speedy warmth of your response!). Doubtless, you will earn the right to my name very soon if this is your direct course of action.

How very fortunate that you should notice the bunny I stitched onto that handkerchief. It is my very favorite one and I made it without having once pricked my finger. In fact, I believe that my embroidery skills are so that I can fashion another handkerchief such as that one in only a few hours. As such, dear sir, I ask you to keep it in remembrance of this correspondence.

However, you mustn't think I have allowed you complete freedom for I do demand to see your father's lodge and all the fields surrounding it! A white bunny with soft fur and warm heart is what I desire but, as I have very limited knowledge of geography, I must ask that you accompany me. I also believe it would be prudent if we started planning for such a trip immediately! Your request for a week has been accepted—accepted with vigor and impatience!

Till we meet again,

Ivy

* * *

Dear Miss Ivy,

I must confess that when you informed me of this gift, I felt quite ill at ease. I did not wish to rob you of this handkerchief nor did I wish to remain where I was without having seen you at least. There seems to a curious sort of frenzy going on within me but when your letter arrived, I was healed instantly. (If this sounds ridiculous then I beg your pardon for it. I am not well versed in the softer emotions of life but, and dare I hope, you might be the one to educate me on such things.)

I also must be honest, as Veritas compels me, to inform you that I have always been a fond equestrian and indeed, breed Arabian stallions in my spare time. It would be no trouble for me to ride to your home tomorrow instead of next week. I am eager to see London (yet I should think that odd since before your acquaintance, I had never liked London). Miss (Y/N). I have known your name for quite a while, having overheard it while you were in conversation with some friends at Lady Wentworth's garden party. If truth can be writ then I must say—I notice everything you do. Whether I want to or not.

Again, I apologize for any informalities but I fear we may have crossed them all.

Affectionately,

_Herman_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ivy: in Victorian flower language, ivy represented friendship. (So this was you telling Herman "you'll be nothing but a friend until you court me properly")
> 
> \- Veritas: Roman goddess of truth (not the software company).
> 
> \- I also imagine that the Greenhill family is part of the leisurely, landed gentry—gentlemen, to be specific. (I'm using the 18th century definition, which is "men of high rank or birth, good social standing, and wealth, who did not need to work or labor.")
> 
> A/N: I figured this was the only structure that would fit Greenhill's brusque tone of voice. He doesn't like to talk any more than necessary/isn't really into the whole maudlin "I love you" bit so I felt an entire letter might be out of character. (And this also allowed me to give a voice—a feisty, saucy voice—to his beloved! Who else pictured Greenhill blushing and stuttering as he read all of these responses?)
> 
> Well, that's it for the P4/S4! Back to the main Kuro cast after this!


	24. Diabolic lovers (Claude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude enjoys possession, favors dominance, and adores subjugation. And you, dear reader, fit his criteria perfectly. (Sweet little doll, I do hope you aren't afraid of a little pleasure.)

Dear one,

The color of your mouth is the most tantalizing dusky rose—there’s a kiss of carmine between your lips, something so soft that I want to savor every last moment. Aren’t you a precious doll? Obedient, gentle, quiet—I dislike how you remained so impassive, standing by my crude master’s side. Your soul cried out to me, warm and honey sweet, and when you brushed your hand against my wrist, you etched your fragrance into my memory. Permanently. Orange blossoms and lavender—the warm kiss of Gordes with their provincial towns and rambling ivy on sandstone.

You were plucked from there and thrown into my web...how dearly I wish to devour you. Four wax candles in a darkened room, a bed of satin in the center—that is where I wish to lay you. Alone, in the midnight hour, while everyone slumbers and your heart stutters, blood rushing through your veins like the tempest’s waves. I stand, fully dressed, as I slip two fingers inside you, feeling the heat of your desire. Your back pressed against the cool satin, your body rosy pale against the auburn glow—how submissive you are. How utterly, delectably _perfect._

To bring you to the edge of insanity is where I will cease, and from there hook your leg—milk pale and smooth—over my shoulder so I may ravish you properly.

Do you know how long I’ve desired to taste you? How glad I was when you did not dance a single waltz—not even when my master asked. They called you shy, they called you dense, they called for mercy when I found them at long last. Death is such a blissful destination that I felt obligated to deprive them of peace. So for each ill thought I flayed them with reproach—watching as the whip's metal hooks tore out chunks of their flesh, watched as they bled and wept and screamed for providence. You must never worry again, dearest—I have scolded every sinner with the cut glass slaughter of hell.

And you would have known these things while my tongue traces your hot core—tasting and licking and kissing your sweet, wet—

You shudder and sigh, bedroom eyed. My hands are pressed against your hips and _finally,_ I am afforded your taste. I kiss the inside of your thigh, so close to the swollen folds of your rose red flower. Nipped and bitten and suckled by me and—are you too shy to take what is yours? Rock against me, pulse into my mouth—grip your slim fingers into my hair and _pull._ Your breathing becomes heavy and you choke back your cries as you come so sweetly that I cannot pull away. The warmest place in the world is between your legs. I rise and your rounded curves invite me back—I do take advantage of what I’m given. To have you beneath my body, moving in scared rhythm. The atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb sinks in around us; the decay and delight—the quietus of being.

You have something I want and until you are mine—body, mind, and soul—I shall have to keep you with me. _Always._

And since you are already so complacent and sweet, I shall not have to chain you against the slashed grey walls of Trancy Manor. Though your helpless shame would arouse me more than words could express.

 

Till then, and with knowing devotion,

—C. Faustus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Gordes: located in the south of France, this charming provincial town is famous for its lavender fields, winding streets, and sienna brick buildings. 
> 
> \- “Four waxed candles in a darkened room” — references T.S. Eliot’s 'Portrait of a Lady'. A critique of the upper class represented by a blue-blooded lady who is depicted as soulless and empty. However, as the poem goes on, Eliot reveals that it’s actually the narrator who is the truly callous and empty hearted one. 
> 
> A/N: Creepy Claude is actually a lot of fun to write. You get to explore so many different avenues. I wanted to make this a little more S&M but I’ll save that for the next letter ;) (I just realized demons go down a lot. Lol sorry.) 
> 
> Review my loves!


	25. Come slowly eden (Vincent)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the courtship of Vincent Phantomhive and Rachel Dalles.

My darling Rachel,

To resolve your last riddle, this I must be—if I were folly and I were free, if I were tempest and if I were priest, one touch divine can bring me relief though one touch more and I will sing of grief.

My answer: do you speak, dearest girl, of seduction true? How you do know my heart—how it only beats for you. One kiss from your lips and I am filled with truth, but one kiss more and I will become uncouth—for surely you know your lips are divine and I am a sinner with dark grievances to hide. Thus the solution must be this: you speak of your kisses (and how sweet they are) and you speak of my lust (something that is never far).

And though you are correct in divining your form, you are wrong to think that I love you only for your beauty. Your angelic visage and graceful walk are what attracted me to you, yes, but beyond that I must convince you I see past your societal debut. Your kind heart and jocose humor; your elegant wit and fearless courage—your mind has become your most beautiful effect. How I yearn to speak to you each day—every day—until our last day.

But, I must confess—though it pains me to do so—that you have taken a perilous path in loving me. I so long to keep you, my bird of paradise, hidden away on some silver cloud, high above in the heavens so you may smile down on the world with admirable benevolence. You are the only good thing in my life and I cannot bear to see you tainted because of a folly I committed.

You have already entrusted me with the whole of your heart and have now corrupted my dear sister to your side—how Francis adores you! You are now the nectar of our lives, imbuing us with the sweetness of your mercy. My bright, busy bee, you tend to each blossom with such care—often forgetting to look upon yourself. I cannot promise to be so delicate but if you wish, I could become your guardian for all time. To protect and love you though we are not from the same star. I cannot even say I am from the heavens themselves.

Often seraphs play their harps and often do the singers sing, but each song they compose is a melody faint—as man need only look in your eyes to find a saint. Come slowly, eden, for I am unused to such pleasure and you, my darling girl, give me more joy than I can bear to say. If you would not mind the impetuosity of it all, I should like to call on you in a fortnight, just before afternoon tea.

Give my regards to sweet Ann (I have enclosed the newest article regarding medical revelation by Pasteur and Koch individually) and for your father I have—with some difficulty—procured freshly imported Virginian tobacco. I know he looks upon Monticello with fondness and a sense of adventure. (Did I mention this was procured with great difficulty? American tariffs, dearest Rachel, are most cumbersome. As such, does this warrant me another kiss—a touch of both tempest and priest? Ah, do humor me darling and try not to smile at how I ache for you.)

 

With impassioned grief and tranquil longing,

_Vincent_

 

\- Did you think I would have forgotten to repay you? Answer me this and I shall see to it that the loveliest pink pearl be placed round your throat four days from now: to love is to divine, to sapphire is to hold. White lace and churchyards—what a strange abode! But here we lie and here we rest, dressed in our Sunday best, hyacinths and tulips—celestial queen, she is Titania, glorified and serene. Name her name and pay her price, as all good men must shed their vice, for the day comes but once a year and dear one, dear heart, I should like you near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Seraphs: angels
> 
> \- “Come slowly, eden”…derived from Emily Dickinson’s poem #211. It tells of a man asking for paradise to come slowly lest it overwhelm him and all his senses. 
> 
> \- Pasteur and Koch: part of the medical milestone of the 1870s. French chemist Louis Pasteur and German physician Robert Koch separately established the germ theory of disease. (Idk, maybe Vincent continued to be kind to her even after that one compliment which only encouraged Madam Red’s infatuation.) 
> 
> \- Monticello: home/plantation to the 3rd US president, Thomas Jefferson. The plantation was purchased in 1834 by Uriah P. Levy who spent his own money preserving the land and property. (I’m not sure if Monticello still produced tobacco in the 1870s. Jefferson only bequeathed freedom to five of his slaves despite having owned more than 600 during his lifetime. So, I’m going on the assumption that even after death, Monticello operated as a plantation.) 
> 
> \- Titania: fairy queen from William Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. 
> 
> A/N: Here he is, Vincent Phantomhive in all his love stricken glory. I imagine that he and Rachel had a very intellectually stimulating relationship filled with witty repartees and warm affection. And oh, can anyone guess what Vincent was trying to ask Rachel with his riddle? ;)
> 
> Happy (belated) birthday, daddy watchdog!


	26. Burn the rose soaked sky (Grell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grell seduces a noble duke.

Oh my dearest darling!

How you confound me with your grace—how your velvet words seem to caress my bare skin; how your touch fills me with blissful, unjust euphoria. But dear one, dear sir knight, you’ve left me wanting! A gentleman of your stature mustn’t ever leave a lady in so dire a straight, lest I decide to lay back on the bed—gracefully, gently—and pretend that the hands touching my body are yours…oh how the cool silk would slip beneath me, shifting like waves on the sea as I rock into my palm and hope that you will soon come to relieve me—

Do you see now what your touch does? Oh my good sir with your skilled tongue and clever words, I should expect a ravishing that leaves me breathless and thighs sore!

The countess who invited me to her home was a _lovely_ woman though red does not flatter her. Only those with porcelain skin can hope to covet crimson as their own and she, my dear duke, did not satisfy. Perhaps her funeral garb ought to be green—that might flatter her dull hair and wan complexion. But—you mustn’t think me spiteful! For there was _one_ woman who managed to do justice to the color red. Dear madam. Perhaps, if she had the gall to remain steadfast, she would still be wearing that marvelous ballgown today.

But then, I would not have danced with you! And oh, how you do _flatter_ a lady! Your compliments may very well make Will pea green with envy! (Oh hush, hush—fret not my beloved. _You’re_ the one I have my attentions on this week and if you should hope to keep my interests _always,_ then be a dear and _seduce me_.) I do love a good seduction. One complete with sheer black lace, midnight villas, and clouded gas lamps that radiate dim amber light—just enough so we may see each other’s forms but the rest, my dear sir, will be left to our hands. And our mouths. 

Can you endeavor to please a lady? I am one of special taste—one you must attempt to match. There are so many handsome men in this world but _you,_ in particular, have caught my eye. Was it the charismatic gravitas you exuded? Or perhaps the fine cut of your black violet suit? And here my heart is fluttering in my chest—to think of you nude would be a wondrous sight. There is only one other I know who can claim Adonis’s form—I wonder, could you compete?

If you should marry me let it be in lavish ceremony—one that is gaudy and wonderful and _red._ You must not faint when you see me in my gown (as I _will_ look stunning) but keep yourself upright until I give you the pleasure of my maiden’s kiss. Or—perhaps I shan’t be so maidenly after all. Men are such lustful beings and, after reviewing the looks _you_ gave me…I daresay that right now, you’re breathing heavy and hot as you think of what I must be wearing as I write this. Shall I tell you? I am feeling wickedly naughty this evening.

It is a crepe-de-chine of diaphanous red that reaches, just barely, mid-thigh. A border of smooth red ribbon kisses the _indecent_ hemline and, on my shoulders, are two thin straps of silk—the only thing holding my little negligee up. On my legs—smooth and pale—I wear opaque black stockings, sheer enough that you can see my skin but the color is still as dark as death. These stockings end in black lace, mid-thigh, leaving just a strip of skin between my stockings and nightie. You may kiss me there but only if I allow it. And here I sit, beautiful and alone, on my ruby satin bed of circular shape—large enough for two but terribly lonely for one.

Alas, even I cannot hope for your presence here. If you are Demetrius then I am Hermia—we are, dear sir, meant to be apart for I must wait for my Lysander. Oh dear, oh dear—it is only after I have written this that I see my folly. Here, I have tempted and teased and tortured you so, all the while knowing you can never have me.

I am a fiendish kitten tonight, am I not?

Let me give you a chance at redemption: if you can take my mind from my beloved Lysander (and perhaps while you’re at it, distract me from my black veined Oberon) then I shall extract from you ever ounce of affection and return it to you a thousandfold.

 

Write me well,

 

_G_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I got the idea of Grell’s nightgown from the play, Lycoris that Blazes the Earth.
> 
> \- Demetrius, Hermia, and Lysander are all characters of William Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. Wherein both Demetrius and Lysander are in love with Hermia but she only returns Lysander’s affection. (So, you know, Lysander is pretty much William [in Grell’s headcanon] while Oberon—Grell’s dirty little fantasy—is Sebastian dearest.) 
> 
> A/N: Ah, LOL. Just like Grell to tease and taunt before dumping a bucket of cold water all over ya. (Cause we all know she’s only got eyes for two men.) 
> 
> Alright my loves I hope I did Grell justice! Seductive, decadent, and with a slight murder fetish—that’s our Crimson Reaper. 
> 
> Give me your thoughts in the comments section below!


	27. Dance with me on bourbon street (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel and Sebastian travel to New Orleans on the queen's command. The demon expects a humid, torrid swamp. He instead sees a dazzling city of music, spice, and creole beauty. 
> 
> For Awesomegurl_5450

_44A Bourbon St.,_

_New Orleans, LA, United States 70116_

_Miss (Y/N) (L/N)_

You once told me to leave the flowers be. To disturb the dust on the rose-petal bowl would be a sin and your lips pouted so prettily when you warned me so. My sweet amaryllis, my beloved black pearl—do you still dance about the sun baked streets of New Orleans, French creole on your tongue, caramel skin warm with the scent of cinnamon and hot, southern kisses? You were the first woman I’d seen in a long time that really did look like something blooming. How my master derided the new American vogue—how vulgar and shameful and tawdry to the extreme. His dislike of America was only overshadowed by his respect towards his queen—a juxtaposition if there ever was one. 

And so, I remember, we swept through your city (I call it yours not for want of worship but for the sake of truth) and I was half-amused, half-exasperated by the outlandish eccentricities that bordered on the grotesque—like a maudlin circus show of red and gaudy velvet. Everyone seemed to laugh too loudly, drink too heavily, dance with abandon—all in a square of liquor soaked cobblestone with narrow winding streets and rogue French sliding off the tongue.

You came to us dressed in gingham, kerchief tied around your thick dark hair, and warned us of our propriety— _we’re suspicious of folks like you, too proper for our loose morals._ My master despised you on sight.

I, on the other hand, felt more revitalized than I had in _centuries._

Not only did you embody the spirit of your creole ancestors with such easy confidence but you seemed to have filled your soul with New Orleans itself. In your eyes the age stricken houses of southern gothic are filled with the debauched ghosts of time past; that joie de vivre of your Caribbean aunt mesmerizes and you seem to urge me ever closer to the abyss. You are so unlike the women of England, France, Austria, Italy—you seem to live in an independent moment untouched by pride or envy or perilous thought. You navigate the seedy underworld as well as anyone but even then there is a part of you that longs to dance under the amber streetlights, head thrown back and skin sun-kissed. How you adored the cacophony of New Orleans—saxophones and horses clopping; chatter and low slanged shouts. How you enthralled me utterly and completely. 

The American civil war freed your people but you seem far more interested in music and laughter and every beautiful thing denied by slaveholders and plantation owners. Here in New Orleans, you are spice and color and burning salvation.

Perhaps that is why I could not bear to part you from the city you loved best. You may think me cruel but I know it is a mercy. A few kisses from your cayenne pepper mouth is not enough. A few touches of your exposed throat and warm, honeyed skin do not satisfy. From the moment we met I’d wanted to kiss you—and when I did, you blushed so prettily that I wanted to kneel down, hike your skirts to your hips, and kiss you _there_ as well. Would you blush for me still?

Had I brought you to England you would have grown to despise me. And I, in all my selfish desire, cannot have that. I refuse to see in your eyes anything less than utter devotion—even if that feeling has to be severed in order to be preserved. Think not of my leave but remember my presence.

My darling girl. My beloved black pearl.

 

À la prochaine,

 

Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “To disturb the dust”…references T.S. Eliot’s poem ‘Burnt Norton’, which tells of a ruined country home in Gloucestershire. The first section I’m referencing details time as an abstract principle combined with a description of children playing in a rose garden. (Age vs. youth)
> 
> \- French creole: the reader here is part of the mixed Caribbean-French line (mixed white and black descent). She’s an interloper that helps Ciel out with his mission and, even though she earns nothing but contempt from the watchdog, she’s certainly caught Sebastian’s attention. 
> 
> \- “You were the first person I’ve seen in a long time”…lifted from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘Tender Is The Night’. An American tragedy involving an ambitious—but foolhardy—gentleman, his beautiful but insane wife, and a murder most foul. 
> 
> \- À la prochaine: until next time (cause there’s no way in hell Sebastian’s done with you just yet!) 
> 
> A/N: Request given to me by Awesomegurl_5450 who also suggested the nickname Sebastian uses so freely in this letter—I hope you liked it!


	28. Lycoris that blazes the earth (Madam Red)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelina Dalles makes a confession. 
> 
> For Evans

Dearest Vincent,

I know I shall never show you the words I’ve written—not these, at least. Not these phrases that will shatter your perception of me and the heart of my sister. I would never be so cruel for I love you two so dearly that I can withstand anything if it means seeing your smiles. I love your smile Vincent—your _true_ smile—not the suave caricature you display for everyone else. The smile where your honey hued eyes light up and I can see the faint imprint of a dimple of your left cheek. The smile that looks as if you’re trying to hold back laughter, as if you knew something terribly amusing but, like the selfish child, would not share it with anyone else. A little boy hoarding sweets.

A lover stealing smiles.

I have seen only a handful of those smiles—most of them in the presence of my sister or your darling Francis. But you smile for me too, don’t you Vincent? When we first met, standing on the edge of the world together—behind us, civilization, and before us, the endless crescendo of the cosmos. An emerald field darkened by the sinking sun, the whole earth quiet in the contemplation of itself. Wildflowers scented the air and above us, the violet soaked heavens poured forth faint stars and drops of sweet orange. We stood side by side, watching the sunset and, right as the last beams of light began to fade away, you turned me into poetry.

You dyed me crimson red and breathed hope into my lungs. My transpose was finalized. In your eyes, I saw the woman I could become—the woman I _will_ become. If I am your red spider lily, won’t you be my deadly nightshade? So we may both devour the world—poison and wine. I so long to speak these things to you but if there ever was a person I loved more than you, it would be my sister. When you asked for her hand I felt a mixture of the purest grief and the greatest elation. I saw her meringue white skin blush a fair rose pink; I saw her begonia sweet radiance and could not help but rejoice on her behalf. 

Yet you—with your secret smiles and honeyed eyes— _you_ stood there and looked at me as if my word meant everything to you. You looked at me as if I could have blessed this union with my own two hands. I am no priest but even I could observe the call for salvation. 

Would you pray for me, Vincent? Would you pray knowing that even after your marriage, I would avow myself to you, body and soul? That no matter who I married I would never give them my heart because you hold it—as you’ve always have—in your quicksilver hand?

The greatest romances—Abelard and Heloise, Pyramus and Thisbe—have no bearing on the affection I keep for you.

Yet still I must wonder, how can a person be so torn? How can half my soul belong to my sister and the other half, to you? If my visage were more angelic, if my steps more graceful—would you have chosen me over Rachel? If I smiled more sweetly, spoke with sharper wit—would you have seen in me what you see in her? If I could divine for you all the happiness in the world, I would do so without hesitation. I would give it all to you Vincent because I know my sister has hers—she is to marry you. That itself is the greatest joy in all the world. To be by your side, always and forever.

But you must know I will _never_ begrudge you on your choice. Rachel is good, kind, and humble; she deserves the crown of Titania and all the cherry blossoms of spring. You are her sycamore tree, Vincent—you provide for her strength and shelter; shield her from the hot sun and give her rainwater so her blossoms may flourish. Together, you hold a union that is gentler and truer than the love Eros had for Psyche; more steadfast than Lancelot and Guinevere; lovelier than Paris and Helen. You are so beautiful together that I know I could never hate you—either of you.

Tomorrow, I can only stand there and watch, with a broken heart and shattered smile, when you kiss her lips—pomegranate red—and she cups your face, cypress sure. Because I, too, love you. I _love_ you Vincent, with everything I am and everything I will be. You are now a part of me and even if you are not my husband, you will be in my life and— _it’s enough._

 _You_ are enough. I can only hope that, one day, perhaps years from now, I will be as well. 

 

With purest devotion and gentlest love,

 

Ann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Abelard and Heloise: the well-learned Abelard was tutor to the lovely Heloise and through their lessons and interactions, the two fell in love. When Heloise fell pregnant with Abelard’s child, the two fled to Brittany and were secretly wed before Heloise’s uncle, Canon Fulbert, attempted to ruin Abelard’s reputation and keep Heloise for himself. In desperation, Heloise fled to a convent and Abelard, in shame, joined a monastery. Yet despite their forced separation, the two kept up correspondence until their respective deaths. Today, these letters are preserved and recognized as one of history’s purest love stories. (12th century, France)
> 
> \- Pyramus and Thisbe: writ by the Roman poet Ovid, the story of Pyramus and Thisbe takes place in ancient Babylon. Due to a fierce and unresolved blood feud, the two lovers could not wed but their passion for one another was too great to be restrained. They decided to meet under a mulberry tree to confess their feelings but on the day of the meeting, Thisbe encountered a lioness who had just returned from the hunt. In terror, Thisbe fled the scene and dropped her wedding veil. The lioness took the veil into her mouth and continued on its way where it was spotted by Pyramus. Pyramus, seeing Thisbe’s bloodied veil, believed her to be dead. In his grief and horror, Pyramus committed suicide by falling on his sword. Later, Thisbe returns to find her lover dead and—mourning his fate—stabs herself with his sword. 
> 
> \- Pomegranate: refers to the fruit of both Hera and Persephone. 
> 
> \- Cypress: a symbol of Hades, lord of the underworld. 
> 
> A/N: A very, very delayed gift for the ever lovely Evans—I hoped you enjoyed this!


	29. Coronet of black death (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michaelis, a newly exiled angel and French marquis’s aide-de-camp, falls in love with an English rose by the name of Ophelia.

_November 9, 1345_

 

My very dearest Ophelia—

How I should be very glad to see you again after so turbulent a time. Like the violent tempest of blue-violet nights, under the guise of a pale moon, I have searched for your soliloquy only to find that you have given me none. My master has heedlessly gone to Austria and I, the cerberus of his soul, must ward my charge with the silent revulsion of a man half dead. It is in _your_ arms where I wish to rest my head, mouth against your breast, and the feel of you beneath me. There is nothing quite like the warmth of your body—the essence of lavender lily so sweet and pure and good. My serenity.

I cannot proceed with any degree of contentment knowing that you are so far away. How foolish I feel—as if struck by the fatal illness of Aphrodite, her ignoble rapture gripping round me like a vice. I am selfish in desire and yearn, with pitiless ambition, to make flush your soft, sweet mouth. To etch you in my mind and on paper so that even while I am away, I will carry your heart with me. My beloved Ophelia, you have given me the most beautiful treasure in all the world and I long to keep it with me always. The all-encompassing totality of love—if there was ever a star in the sky that shone through blackest night, it is you.

A carnation pink seraph, you hold me near and erase from my mind all fear of subjugation. I read my words and the monster in me sneers, wishing for this parchment to burn so I may return to my hellish damnation. But another part of me—so new and frail that I dare not trust it to anyone save you—feels the adoration you give so freely. How could I have left the ninth ring only to stumble into your arms? The contours of your body, curved and full; your soft moon breasts I have learned and still wish to learn. How those precious buds do harden when I nip them ever so gently; how your breath hitches and your hips press against my own. The softness of you, rounded and rosy pale, hold me captive in beatific beauty.

Yet it is not your body I desire most—it is you, Ophelia. From your sweetness of being to your indulgent love—how this tenderness has made me so very spoiled, a hellion for love!—and how every word you say brings me charm and bliss. I look back on who I was and see the exquisite misery you have purged me of. How you whimper and gasp at my devilish ministrations though you are purity personified. Or was, at any rate. Soft as milk, pliant and willing, you let me kiss every inch of your Apollonian beauty. With you my darling, I have learned to love. 

What should I do if you were snatched away from me? How would I be? Never leave me, Ophelia, for I do not know what I should—no. That is a lie. I _do_ know and the premonition of destruction is hateful to me. The darkness I strive to suppress would have no reason to hide any longer. I would take for myself, in grotesque action and hideous sin, the humanity of each and every person I come across for they are nothing compared to you. I have been cast down once, sentenced to damnation, but it was no great abuse. I have never particularly fond of paradise—I've never seen its profound perfection—so I felt little affliction when I was robbed of it. After all, the blind man who cannot see would not care for a color he is unable comprehend. 

But you and you alone Ophelia have unlocked the gates of eden and allowed me entry. Now that I have experienced utopia—now that I _remember_ —I would sooner strip the flesh from my body than to see you harmed.

A thousand kisses to you and our sweet darling. A thousand more for the journey though that is not nearly enough. Soon, we shall all be reunited so I may love you and hold you and feel the beating of our little prince’s heart.

 

With all affection,

_Michaelis_

 

\- Please write back soon, my darling. I have not heard from you in nearly three months and the aeon is driving me to the brink of insanity. A few words on paper will do, my beloved. One stroke of your pen and you’ll have consumed my waking days. Send me a letter and tell me how you fare; tell me if our little prince is giving you grief for he is _our_ child. A devilishly handsome little boy—I await his birth with eager anticipation.

 

 _July 20, 1345—OBITUARY: Unexplained murder of expectant mother_ **_OPHELIA M_ ** _. found on Rue de Paradis—DECEASED._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ninth ring: refers to Dante’s ‘Inferno’ and his nine rings of hell. The ninth ring represented treachery and it was where all sinners who committed acts of treachery went. There are four rounds; the deeper you go, the greater the sin. 
> 
> \- Headcanon: long before Sebastian was Ciel’s butler, he held a contract with a French marquis that allowed him to cross paths with an Englishwoman, Lady Ophelia. As this was only one of the handful of contracts Sebastian made, he was still relatively isolated from the human world and before long, fell in love (or as close to love as a demon can experience) with Ophelia. Before long, she became pregnant with his child and this euphoria brought before Sebastian the possibility of redemption after he was exiled from heaven. However, his master was called back to Austria and due to the faustian contract, Sebastian was obligated to follow him. He did not learn of his lover’s death until it was too late and her body had already been cremated. After that, the evil in Sebastian—which had not entirely solidified—manifested. 
> 
> \- 1345: the year before the Black Death destroyed nearly all of western and eastern Europe. 
> 
> A/N: Yeah, the Ophelia here is a reference to Hamlet. And this is also my weird headcanon as to why Sebastian chose the surname Michaelis—the name he used when he first met Ophelia; the only memory he has of genuine happiness. (A load of mushy goodness because why not.) 
> 
> And yes, I referenced Hamilton again. Argh—that soundtrack is so good and I was listening to ‘Take A Break’ as I was writing this. Angelica’s voice is just beauty personified.


	30. La vie en rose (William)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William confesses his love to Y/N, a French cabaret singer. 
> 
> For Rhiannon

Pour Mademoiselle (Y/N),

Quoi?—L’Eternité. C’est la mer allée avec le soleil. Those were the first words you spoke to me when I approached you at the Moulin Rouge. How quick you were to think that I was another spectator in a lascivious mood and how shyly you conducted yourself when you learned I was merely here on business. I experience time in an entirely different manner and thus, this confession may make little sense to you. I do not expect a reply my dear mademoiselle, only—it is your voice that serenades my dreams. Your nocturne of roses and song.

I cannot seem to forget you. 

My repose has been ornamented with your image. My fingertips still burn—the memory of your curls, soft and loose—have been etched into my skin. A fleeting farewell I can never complete; how each night I bid you goodbye and every evening I return. If you must know the embarrassing truth, I remain only for the duration of your songs. I sit beside a vermillion clothed table, small and round, a glass of white wine beside me though I do not drink. I sit there and I watch you on that honeyed stage. I can never seem to have my fill of you, no matter what I do.

And, in truth, my plight has taken my composure, for I cannot even bring myself to confess the full extent of my longing. I hesitate to express these next few words (as I know they will brandish me a heathen of covetous design) but when your melodic voice first rang out, I found myself in stasis. The world could have spun east, west, up, down—I would not have noticed. You had me paralyzed with your dulcet tone—a Viennese symphony. I heard your first performance by accident, standing there by the entryway— _quand il me prend dans ses bras_ —those words seemed prophetic.

I had a record of you made that night. And against the black evening, when I am unable to sleep—to think of anyone else except you—I play your voice on the phonograph and can envision, in perfect detail, the gold chandelier lights illuminating your rosy pale skin. Your beaded dress sparkling like a million black diamonds, the curls of your hair loose and improper, held up by bejeweled ostrich feathers that have never looked more ridiculous, or more beautiful, on your person. Even your form, how you conduct yourself with rosewater grace, endears my heart to you.

Truthfully, even the briefest, tenderest touch sets me aflame. They grant me dreams I dare not speak of out loud; and in you, I have found poetry.

You must think me rash. Unwise and brazen. I would not disagree. Never would I wish to shame you; never will I come forth knowing that what I might say would injure or harm your peace of mind. I am not so arrogant nor, before you begin to think, so selfless. France, England, Spain—they could all fall to pieces if it meant you and I—

Do forgive me, (Y/N). Even when I write a letter to you I seem to lose all sanity. Please, do not feel obligated to call forth any empathy. My dilemma deserves none and I should have never burdened you with such insinuations. I apologize. 

But even here I am cruelly wanting—even now, I wish to see you once more. If you could withstand my presence for just an evening more, I swear to leave you be come morning light. But if you should find in me something worthy of your affections, if I am not entirely misplaced in what I dare call amity, then I ask you to meet me before the red windmill. Demain, dès l’aube.

 

Où les coeurs s’éprennent,

 

_Will_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Quoi?—L’Eternité. C’est la mer allée avec le soleil.” (Translation: What?—Eternity. It’s the sea fused with the sun.) comes from the poem ‘L’Eternité’ by Arthur Rimbaud. A poem that I think encompasses William completely—deceptively slim but dense in intellectual information.
> 
> \- “Quand il me prend dans ses bras” (Translation: When you hold me in your arms) comes from the classic French song ‘La Vie en Rose’. Written in 1945, the song’s title alludes to life through rose colored glasses. (And I usually try to keep everything I reference from within the time frame but gosh, I absolutely melted listening to Louis Armstrong’s version of ‘La Vie en Rose’ so I just had to include it ^^) 
> 
> \- “Demain, dès l’aube” (Translation: Tomorrow, at dawn) is a line from Victor Hugo’s poem of the same name. Published in 1856. 
> 
> \- “Où les coeurs s’éprennent” (Translation: When hearts will meet) comes from Arthur Rimbaud’s poem ‘Chanson de la plus haute tour’ (Song of the Highest Tower). The poet laments the loss of his youth; anguished and despondent, calls for universal love. 
> 
> \- Moulin Rouge opened October 6, 1889 and, despite some misinformation, it was not a whorehouse. It was a cabaret featuring coquettish chanteuses and seductive dancers who were former courtesans. 
> 
> A/N: Despite the fact that I took around 7 years of French, my ability to speak the language is sorely lacking so do pardon me for any grammatical errors that I may have made ^^ (I hope you liked this, Rhiannon!)


	31. Apart from you there is no joy (Viscount Druitt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Viscount makes an impassioned plea to his sweet little robin.
> 
> *Personalized letter announcement below*

Oh beloved robin—my rose diamond angel!

I write to you now in agonized misery as my soul, harrowed by the endless night, bends with the remover to remove as without you, I am but a fickle heart lost in the torrents of this blue-blooded echelon. Without your butterfly hand resting in mine, I find myself with no stability and no direction—I am lost, sweetest eden, and only you can lead me to paradise! Oh my darling robin how you fled from my home with your satin skirts aflutter but still—even in your haste—you did not leave my heart. I hold you close in my mind, remembering with perfect clarity the excruciating beauty of your countenance—how your face seemed to be sculpted by the white winged angels of heaven; how your mouth, two petals of cherry blossom pink, pouted so beautifully when I pressed our bodies together.

My sweet, spoiled princess—I lie awake, filled with images of you. The graceful curve of your hip, the perfect sapphire blue of your eye! Your skin, cool and snowy like crème Chantilly—you have never done a day’s work and in my arms, you never shall! I shall love you to your heart’s content but even then, it will not be enough! For what of my love? I am an endless spring—the Baikal Lake of Russian song—but even that pales in comparison to the adoration I hold for you my dearest, truest robin. Oh I pray that you might forgive my rash actions but that fateful night brought us together! It brought us together and from that memory, I cannot part.

How I yearn to hold you in my arms and cover you with a million kisses beneath the white-hot equator. Can there be a song—a lament—for the ache you bring to the very depths of my soul? How when I look at you, the world dims in brightness and everything loses color for _you_ are all I hold dear. They say that I radiate all the glory of the sun but if that be true, you must be my Diana, illuminating this mortal plane with your silver blossom and knowing smile. Alas, alas—what must I write, what must I say, what must I _do_ —in order to find you once more? I am in Tartarus without you—my Psyche, my violet Persephone!

Never have I seen a face so pure! One so perfectly matched with your dulcet coos of want—nectarine sweet and imperiously endearing. I would give you the world on a silver platter but—nay! Silver is too common for the likes of you! Gold, perhaps? But your lily-fair hand must never touch so covetous a metal, an alloy unworthy of want! I would serve you your heart’s desire on a pearl shell plucked from the seas of Cyprus. Luminously iridescent, tinted rosé, it shall carry your jewels and comb. Oh my august queen—my robin shall have a chariot carved from the largest south sea pearl, one drawn by the finest swans of Paphos. Upon the spokes of its wheel cherubs will weave sweet myrtle and green ivy; your seat will be of lavender velvet and encase you softly.

The immortal touch of you would make man whole and soothe the cries of children everywhere. You must be a goddess divine to have come into the world so suddenly only to leave and grant me nothing but grief. If this be our parting then let it never be morrow—let me drown in the agonized Erebus of sorrow. Goodbye, goodbye—my almost lover!

 

~ _Aleister_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “bends with the remover to remove…” comes from William Shakespeare’s ‘Sonnet 116’ which speaks of eternal love and devotion through strife and tribulation. (Also quoted by the beautiful Kate Winslet in 1995’s ‘Sense and Sensibility’.) 
> 
> \- Baikal Lake: the deepest freshwater lake in the world. Located in Siberia. 
> 
> \- “How I yearn to hold you in my arms and cover…” modified from one of Napoleon Bonaparte’s many letters to his first wife, the Empress Joséphine. 
> 
> \- Cyprus: the birthplace of Venus. 
> 
> \- Paphos: the chief center of worship for Venus. (Swans also associated with the goddess of love.)
> 
> \- Erebus: primeval god of darkness. 
> 
> A/N: Wow. So as you can probably tell, I just went for it. Aleister holds nothing back so this letter is just obsequious linguistic pandering that, like Druitt, has no real depth but a whole lotta show. (Man oh man is this guy fun to write for. I can’t believe I didn’t do him earlier!) 
> 
> Next letter is influenced by one of my absolute favorite OTPs (tbh, probably my only OTP). Very excited for you guys to read it :) (Oh, and once July hits, I’ll be doing personalized letters so if you would like one, just let me know! Please leave a name (pseudonym, code name, character name or whatever you wish), hair/eye/skin color, a brief personality description, and any quirks or habits you want to see included. Lastly, tell me who you want and the scenario you’d like to read! More details to come ^^)


	32. I dreamed of you (Blavat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blavat writes a letter and realizes three things: he’s infuriated by her, he’s intrigued by her, and he’s hopelessly in love with her. Portrait painters who are plain of face but possess astonishing eyes seem to be Blavat's weakness. 
> 
> (This was written based on conjecture since I really don't have a whole lot to go on with Blavat.)

Beta Lyrae— 

I have thought and pondered over the proper address of this letter and conceded that formalities may be set aside, just this once—after all, we are _quite_ familiar with one another are we not? How does one address a portrait painter whose countenance is as fair as a winter blizzard and whose mulish honor exceeds that of a crown prince standing before his maker and master? Truth be told, I sat here and went through several titles to address for you: the first was simply your name but there’s a certain dryness in that wouldn’t you say? Dull and routine—much like yourself—but I am a thespian at heart.

The second nomination I had is actually quite flattering as it allows me to remedy my previous error in which I thought you were a man. The fault rests entirely in those hideous dress shirts you threw on—what kind of painter works so slatternly? Where is your sense of dignity and style, wench? I understand these may be terms you rarely use outside of artistic work but England survives on silks and ribbons—you must get some for yourself. Your figure is not terrible and your skin is fair (do you bleach it with lemon juice? One young lady informed me she bathed in buttermilk thrice a week and washed her face with lemon juice to bleach her freckles. I told her that beauty must come from within for she was neither fair nor gracious and reminded me a stunned ox during the summer season). Nevertheless, there is a tailor I know of—Nina Hopkins—who would be _positively gleeful_ to do something for you.

She has a tender heart towards the slovenly and less fortunate.

Nevertheless, you must look past my generosity as there is something of great importance I must tell you: fair harridan, you owe _me_ a new shirt. And, I daresay, I’ve more than earned it. It is understandable that you wish to paint under the oak tree (for London is such a fickle mistress) but _my lady_ —allowing yourself to be so unaccompanied? Allowing street urchins and deceitful waifs near your presence? Tis fortunate that I was nearby to drive them back (though I was rather impressed with your ingenious display of skill. I did not think a painter’s brush could also double as a dagger and fighting knife) but upon my valor—and your rather brusque display of reluctant gratitude—you somehow commandeered the wind to blow my way and merge, with strange skill, the front of my white shirt to the orange paint of your palette. 

I do _not_ care for orange.

Yet while I began my legal objections, you gazed at me with eyes of the most astonishing color—the purest, warmest blue that I thought myself drowning in a Caribbean lagoon. Another Canopus—independent, unique, determined, and loyal to a fault. I knew nothing of you save your painter’s hand and vivid sapphire eyes but _it was enough._ You are without a doubt the most infuriating of women. Mistrustful of everything, from my motives to my smile...is it not enough that I have stayed away? Must you corrupt my mind as well?

One conversation with you— _one—_ and I find myself questioning the tacit conversance of the world that I have gleaned through years of systematic desecration. Appearance may hail me as a guardian of souls but I am nothing more than a parable—even to myself. Man can never fully understand themselves as they do others. Though you—always you—are the exception. You are blunt and objective and know only what you claim to know. There is no pretense around you.

No show.

 _I_ do not know how to cease what I am yet when I spoke to you, I held no trepidation. I suppose that is what makes you sinfully dangerous. A star who has claimed her master—now isn’t that a _sight?_ We are binary you and I. 

I do not claim to be a particularly noble man and my humble origins are of wicked dispute. Yet you and I, we’ve diverged from the same road. You have made your way down the cobblestone path, honest and straightforward with your humility and jeweled eyes. For myself, there are silver chalices and violet amethysts; predictions and synonyms that have earned me fame. But, (Y/N), I wish you a future away from me and all I represent. I despise you almost as much as I love you. But by now, your expression must be one of confounded disgust and, if you are near a mantle place, burn this letter and return to your life. I will, dear maiden, remain a shadowy enigma— _as I should have._ I do not particularly enjoy humanity but you, (Y/N), are my singular exception.

Now keep away from this entire business, won’t you? Keep yourself and your star safe. The heavens contain a million objects of glittering wonder and I am in no position to discriminate. But if the faintest star glows just a bit brighter, if the echoes of wind and river rustle a bit softer—then I would have made peace with my lot in life. And yours too.

We are not Tristan and Iseult—no heavenly fanfare will ever sing for me—and I will not come back for you. After all, you will not miss me much at all. 

 

— _Blavat_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Binary: refers to two or more stars that orbit around each other. The term was coined by Sir William Herschel in 1802 who catalogued more than 700 of these "double stars". The stars evolve together but are not identical. 
> 
> \- Beta Lyrae: a semidetatched binary system that consists of a primary and secondary star which rotate around each other.
> 
> \- Harridan: nagger, shrew, etc. 
> 
> \- Tristan and Iseult: a popular 12th century romance that tells of the doomed love affair between Cornish knight Tristan and Irish princess Iseult. After defeating the Irish knight Morholt, Tristan retrieves their princess, Iseult, for his uncle, King Mark, to marry. While aboard the ship Tristan and Iseult accidentally ingest a love potion, causing them to fall in love with one another. While Iseult is forced to marry King Mark, she and Tristan continue their adulterous affair until Mark (upon discovering their deceit) stabs Tristan with a poisoned lance. (There are many, many endings of this story but I only know of Prose Tristan’s version so that’s what I’m going by.) 
> 
> A/N: Well, because we don’t know a whole lot about Blavat, I discerned that his personality would be amiable, taunting, jocose, and full of sharp, thorny wit. He’s mysterious so his letter (in his mini-monologues) are also fairly enigmatic because we really don’t have much to go on. (There’s also like 743 different spellings of the dude’s name but I’m going by the “official” version which is Blavat. It sounds distinctly Romanian, doesn’t it?) 
> 
> (Decidedly influenced by my favorite OTP. Jaime/Brienne. Despite the fact that he's stuck in the Riverlands and still somehow devoted to his nutcase sister, I have faith in my ship.) 
> 
> Next letter will be Undertaker in a decidedly different setting, mingling with some very pious people. 1400s.


	33. Fragile heart beating still (Undertaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Renaissance Italy, the Undertaker observes a suicide. 
> 
> (References the 2011 Showtime series, 'The Borgias'.)

Spett.le (Y/N) (L/N),

Che giornata! I have always found the human heart to be a fickle instrument but its fragility is too often juxtaposed with the zaftig form of wanton libido. Italy is quite balmy in the summer, hm? Very warm, yes. Perhaps that was why so many women were walking about, exposed and pink-faced. But then again, that could have been because of _the incident._ I write this to you now as there was a certain... _whimsy_ involved with the whole affair—and I know you, signora, are a wretched jezebel for scandal.

But perhaps I should renounce my favor and instead tell you something about the _weather._ That would be polite. And courtesy is all you deserve after you bested me in that last round of cards—how do you do it, signora? My dear operatic signora. How tender and amusing you can become when you are in your cups. One chalice gone, you renounce Rome. Two more and you call me a god. Three later, you are destined for purgatory and—is it not the most mirthful contradiction? Tsk, tsk—your father, _the cardinal,_ would be _quite_ appalled at the sight. Me, lingering about your parlor like some jilted Incitatus of the lost consul. 

But _ah,_ how malleable is my favor. You have earned it once again as the memory of these prior months surface to the forefront of my mind. 

Thus:

In the early hours of dawn, on the dust paved road of merchants and meanderers, a constable found a young man—noose round his neck—dangling from a parapet. He was quite the handsome fellow—skin like warm amber and hair, onyx black. Most likely Sicilian. A young, handsome character— _dead._

His name was Paolo and he committed suicide (or so the populace believe) though one would never suspect that he’d been forcefully coerced to death by a vengeful duke.

Paolo. What a handsome, foolish fellow. Impregnating the pope’s daughter—what a _sin!_

You ought to have seen the poor girl’s tears when they brought him down, cold and asleep at long last. It was quite the theatrical performance—how she threw her arms about his frail shoulders and wept into the ragged mass of his shirt. Her brother—the dutiful Cardinal Borgia—pried her off and carried her ladyship aside. I would be remiss to forget him though his affection often rises above duty and veers towards the human love spouse bears spouse. Nevertheless, I have witnessed another tragedy brought about by human spite and the righteous anger of the privileged and poor.

Life is such a precious commodity, signora, yet humans treat souls like cattle. One for killing, one for raising; one for whoring, one for keeping. There is a weariness I walk through, wondering if happiness is a lost art. A lost ark.

Humanity displays such a wide array of talents and emotions that I am bound to fall one day. There must be charm somewhere in this world; some entity that can see past the ugliness of today. Perhaps this Paolo is the sorriest of all—perhaps he regrets loving the pope’s daughter and perhaps he now repents for having done so. But the crowd shall forget come a day or two and within months (mayhap a few weeks) the pope’s daughter shall also forget. Death comes and passes and humanity forgets.

Memory is such a faithless despot.

Alas, I end this transcript with a note of exclamation: I am to depart Rome for a brief assignment to my mother country, France. How lovely it will be, to witness the azure sea and lubricious king who fritters away his country’s gold and consumes daily the weight of four oxen. (Are you _smiling,_ signora? Or is that a twitch of your mouth? Forget how I know, simply take me as I am.)

 

Cordiali saluti,

 

—C

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Scenario siphoned from The Borgias, S2E3. The events are thus fictional and not historical.) 
> 
> \- Spett.le is the abbreviated form of Spetttabile, meaning respectable in Italian. 
> 
> \- Che giornata: what a day! 
> 
> \- “jilted Incitatus of the lost consul”…refers to ancient Rome and specifically, the favored horse of the mad emperor Caligula. Caligula, whether in a fit of madness or black humor, elected his horse Incitatus to the position of Roman consul—the highest elected political office in the Roman Republic. Undertaker here is poking fun at both himself and the reader’s draconian father.
> 
> \- “lubricious king who fritters away…” refers to King Charles VIII who, upon his death, left France in debt and disarray due to his political ambitions. However, he also encouraged the arts of the French Renaissance and strengthened France’s cultural ties to Italy. 
> 
> \- The ‘C’ I’m referring to is the fan theory of Undertaker’s name, Cedric K. Ros…(something, something) 
> 
> A/N: I’ve always thought the Undertaker was old. Like really old. Probably human around the 14th century (just because I can see the Undertaker as a man of humble origins who became a legend once he died). This letter isn’t really a romantic letter (more like a letter between two close friends). And—headcanon here—after she died, Undertaker probably took her mourning locket and added it to his chain. 
> 
> Also: July’s approaching! If you want a personalized letter please leave a name (pseudonym, code name, character name, your own name, etc.), hair/eye/skin color, a brief personality description, and any quirks and habits you wanna see included. Lastly, tell me which Black Butler babe you’d like a letter from!


	34. Darkling in the eternal space (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian realizes that sentiment, ill formed and cruel, paralyzes demons as well as it does mankind. (An alternative to ch. 16 'Lilies of death-pale hope'.)

_Address to Lady (Y/N) (L/N), Countess of West Essex_

 

_My dearest—_

There have been singular moments of happiness in my life. Individual epochs of gentle charm and wonder; yet each time I pause to reflect back on such moments, I realize they’ve all occurred with you by my side. To condemn you of happiness outside my being would be, as humanity decries, unkind, but both you and I know of morality and its fickle charm. My fair angelic Eve, if you should think our time here happy, allow me to repossess you all the more—I would take hold of your wrist and ravish you completely. There is nothing like the feel of your heartbeat pressed against my palm.

How can I let you go knowing that there is a part of me—human and mundane and filled with fragile longing—that _wants_ to fight for you?

To become enamored with a human was beyond all expectation. I never should have pursued this game but I did—so sure of myself and abilities (is that not the folly of my kind?). Yet there is a petty, childish part of me that wants to demand _why!_ Why did you, my only Eve, have to be so completely wonderful? To enrapture the darkest demon—I do not know if you are witch, mage, or vixen but here I am today, repressing every sinful desire in an attempt to maintain your trust. Immediate and inglorious I clutch your memory near.

I do not think you realize how arduously I suppress my desire for you. When we first kissed, I longed to strip you of gown and cloak and press your soft form, nude and warm, to the velvet of my still-clothed body. When your naked wrist brushed against my cheek, I shuddered and wanted nothing more than to fall on my knees and worship you in every way I knew how. Ave Maria, my beloved. There is nothing in me that would suggest holiness and yet, I would rob you of every sanctity if it meant you could be mine for all eternity. I hold vicious, unyielding lusts—ones that revolve around keeping you permanently. Of watching you sink deeper and deeper into the abyss so that we could return to my realm together—you in my arms—free from all propriety and pretense.

There, I would be able to kiss your mouth, redder than cherries in the spring. There, your snow pearl skin would be exposed—save for a slip of grey smoke dancing around your slim form. You would be my finest instrument, so perfectly tuned to play the melody I long to hear—every moan and sigh and breath…mellifluous as honey. You would glow with absolute beauty, radiating diamond-like, for hell has no sun. Do you realize the absolute agony I am in, knowing that I could touch you this way but still, for some reason, stay my hand? That though I need no air, I am breathless; though I bleed malice and hate, I am filled, every time I see you, with the passionate ache of a lover on the brink.

I try to hold back these covetous and cruel cravings from you but—let me be selfish here—how can I convince you not to wed him (Y/N)? Be it your father’s wish? Defy it! Be it your mother’s coercion? Listen not! If there is one thing I admire about you then let it be your straightforward devotion towards those you love but—do you not love me as well? Can I not hope for another creature to love me? If you do, why must you insist on breaking the very portion of me that is _yours_? That is human? For so long I have served my master, awaiting my time, when suddenly—you appeared.

I cannot put on paper the words I want to argue. For eons, I have thought humans egotistical and mercenary—a fact my master proves continuously, day to day. So why must you, (Y/N), be the first to break such a covenant? Would you leave me a hollow carcass and deprive my tarried soul of all sentiment?

Do you love him?

What do you feel?

How can I express to you—

What do you want from me (Y/N)? You’ve set my blood afire—wiped reason from my consciousness. There is a monster in me, one that feeds on my anguish.

You said you love every part of me.

How well will you love the beast?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: To be completely honest, I’m not very happy with the way this turned out. I debated on whether or not to make it more angsty and decided on the not and I quite regret that decision. Perhaps it would have been best if I did make it a bit more melancholy. (You could also look at this as an alternative to the ‘Lilies of death-pale hope’ chapter with a more sentimental Sebastian at play.) 
> 
> Also: July’s approaching! If you want a personalized letter please leave a name (pseudonym, code name, character name, your own name, etc.), hair/eye/skin color, a brief personality description, and any quirks and habits you wanna see included. Lastly, tell me which Black Butler babe you’d like a letter from!


	35. Orpheus and eurydice (Sansa x Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lady of winter intrigues the demon of hell. 
> 
> Personalized letter for StarkSupportingAngelofMusic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy July! Starting today I will be posting up personalized letters. Requests will be taken through July 7th :) I already have a to-do list and letters will be published based on a first come, first serve basis. 
> 
> Now that that’s out of the way, I hope you enjoy this StarkSupportingAngelofMusic! (We could all use more Sansa love these days ^^)

_Addressed to: the empress of lapis lazuli_

 

Fairest lady—

Before you think me a suitor of disposable means, I will begin by addressing your coronet of fatal sin—indeed, I speak truthfully and should you know me better my lady, you would see that no man understands sin better than I. It is a crime punishable by death to drain the sunset of all her color and steal from marigolds their dewy beauty. Your fire-spun locks and satin ember artistry—must you captivate the masses so wholly? 

Ah, but perhaps I have already shown you my slight of hand; you have always been an observant one, _sweet little dove._ Would you take offense to this praise? But of course you would—for no dove could have withstood the rumination of cruel politic the way you have. Perhaps that is why you looked at me with arctic blue eyes and a wintry smile; how you observed my master with all the calculated grace of a woman at war. Have you been kissed by Khione, goddess of snow? For days after our first affair I could think of little else but the cool touch of your hand.

 _“Do excuse me sir, for I mean no slander.”_ Your mouth, soft and sweet, plied into a fleeting smile—rose pink and foreign. _“But I must question the dignity in dancing with a servant—talented, yes, but such a gesture is refuted by respectability."_

Oh, the _audacity._ The proper, arrant audacity that brought me a smirk of genuine pleasure. How your gaze did not waver—did not falter—when you stepped aside, keen as ever, after detecting the desire of every man—baseborn or royal—in mine eyes. Think not of flippant praise, my winter jewel, for I have always possessed a singular ability to recognize the bitter sorrow of a heart thrice broken. Do you mourn for their fates, dearest Sansa? (May I address you so? Would you permit me to cross the threshold of familiarity so that I may think of your meringue fair skin late at night, the color of moonlight, while we remain parted?)

Let vice take you by the wrist—for too long you have been an ivory angel and, _I should like to see you sin._

What better way than with I? If you would come to me when the dawn is still grey, perpetuated by weak sunlight in the bleak mid-winter, I will ferry you away to a forest of whitewood trees—as pure as the December morn. The only color would be the bright auburn of your hair and the black velvet of my body. Your eyes, a shade of blue diamond, lock against mine and from your position in my arms, I press my mouth against yours. For a daughter of frost and ice, your lips are sweet—like the rich winter berry—but you are no mere flower, are you?

Your teeth, sharp and sure, nip and bite and pierce my mouth, jaw, throat—as if wishing to draw blood.

This is where the game begins. Your garments of cashmere fall to the ground, sapphire pools against the white snow, and you stand before me, a blessed virginal beauty. Could I paint you then, in poetry and thought? Psyche and Helen and all of Troy pales in comparison to the delicate curves of your waist, the soft swell of your breast…shall I worship you, fairest darling? Dahlia of my heart, mistress of my mouth—I bend down before you, like a pilgrim at prayer, and press open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your stomach and hip. _Imperial silk._

How your hands—elegant and sure—come to grip at my hair, your arousal sweet as heady cinnamon. I spread your legs and allow my tongue to taste the flavor of you—sharp, honeyed, _warm._ Velvet folds and heated desire yet when I look up, your arctic eyes fix on me and your cheeks, while flushed, do nothing to brandish the image of the ice queen you so portray.

I do so enjoy a challenge. 

With almost zealous fervor I return to my task; hands gripping at your hips as I hook both legs over my shoulders, forcing your milk white back to press against the whitewood bark. The sounds you make— _there!_ Mewls and gasps and soft whispers of my name—that is what I want to hear, lovely Sansa. 

My mouth pressed fully between the apex of your thighs, tongue teasing and tasting what lays beyond the gates of Venus—tightly, you grip at my hair and your whole body trembles. _Come for me—_ the winter breeze is sharp against your skin but your face is warm and body heated. Read this and know that as your release builds, my kisses become ever more relentless; suckling and grazing your slick wet folds until—

Your chest heaves with ill begotten pleasure and though you are hazy eyed and sated, _I want more._ And so it seems, do you. How cleverly and swiftly your hands come to unburden me of my cutaway and vest; gone is the shirt I shall have to later iron and with impatient finesse you free me from all confines.

Shall I bring you, my winter princess, to the very depths of hell? With your legs wrapped around me and your cries eager, I delve into the paradise of holy sacrament—one that I will never see. Your hands are everywhere but control is such a fickle mistress; without meaning to, I fist my hand into your sunset waves, wanting to feel the cool silk of your hair while your body—rosy pale and hot to the touch—rocks against me with feverish delight.

You make love as though you are seeking revenge and I cannot help the selfish reciprocation I grant in return. Hard and fast and heady, I seek to exhaust you of all pretense for when you next look at me, so close to the brink, your eyes are the clearest lake water and your cherry ripe mouth a genuine sin. 

Your thighs tremble as the burden breaks—your release rushes forward like the tsunami crest and how greedily you take every drop of what I give. The pale sun now stands high in the sky, turning the acres of snow into fields of glittering diamond. You rest your cheek against my shoulder, breathing soft and arms around my neck.

_“Stay.”_

And what, fairest Sansa, can I say except _yes, my lady._

 

Awaiting your word,

 

_Sebastian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lapis lazuli: a semi-precious stone shaded the purest, boldest blue. It was used to make ultramarine, the finest and most exclusive of all the blue pigments. Cleopatra herself used lapis lazuli as eyeshadow. 
> 
> \- When Sebastian writes ‘affair’ he just means their first meeting but devil boy’s gotta make it sound more sexual so…there it is. 
> 
> \- Dahlia: in Victorian flower language, the dahlia symbolized an everlasting bond between two people. (And I just realized half of this entire letter was basically a descriptive sex scene. Sorry about that!) 
> 
> A/N: Well, Sansa’s been thrice engaged and twice married but homegirl deserves a proper wedding night wouldn’t you say? ;) I hope I did Sansa (and Sebastian) justice in this fic! S² indeed. (Cheered so loud when she finally threw Ramsay to the dogs.) 
> 
> Added side note: please be patient while awaiting your letter! I have quite a few to get through and oftentimes I like to edit and re-edit the letters before I publish them but I promise, they will be posted! :) Thank you for your understanding ^_^


	36. Ariadne's thread (Miss Anonymous x Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beneath her deceptively sweet facade, Sebastian could sense a woman of resplendent ermine and onyx laced beauty. 
> 
> Personalized letter for anonymity

_My lady, Persephone—_

 

Dearest girl, 

You are the first woman of creation. Temptation, sin, innocence—how you mock the very foundations of virtue! When we met, you first cut my throat with your words before curtseying with such deliberate sweetness. It seems odd how you hide your volatility from others yet in my presence, you express it freely. Though you claim such abandon came with a loss of inhibition (for why would a noblewoman of your stature fear my judgement?), I must cultivate that answer further. There is something I cannot quite seem to comprehend—not in the way you smile or sigh, nor the way you plead loveliness when I know your true opinions are sharper than the knife of your smile.

Under a burning ochre sky I asked for your name. _“Oh dear sir you must forgive my ignorance but I cannot tell you my name when I myself am unaware of yours.”_ You spoke with saccharine poise—cherub cheeked and wide eyed—and all the world would have bowed at your feet then. Clever little girl with your dutiful smiles and demure beauty—but why disguise excellence under a facade of humility? False modesty becomes no one, dearest.

But then, you must think me a pharisee in betraying my own word—yet if I were to bequeath my Sodom and Gomorrah heart to you, your lily-fair hands would burn and your eyes—eventide jewels—would sense in me every misdeed I have siphoned through the centuries. In truth, it was the juxtaposition of your achievements that aroused in me the highest amusement—a woman so exceptional hiding beneath the mundane? How _astonishing._ My young master oft steals the gilt away from others so as to glorify himself but it is so rare for one human to feign normalcy, to dress in mediocrity.

For who would suspect young, sweet Kore when there were other fatales of a more devious nature beyond? But clever girl, you must not forget—the queen of Hades dwelt within the caverns of her own soul. No virgin choir need sing your praise when you already conduct yourself with such grace. Yet masquerades are such a burden to uphold and you, my precious darling, are too rich a sin to ever condone. 

The comet of your smile still burns my mind; the Vesper star of your gaze feeds into the desecration of my being. You waltzed with every suitor who came your way, polite till the end even when their banal monstrosity tried my own patience. Little vixen, you knew better than I, did you not? _Brazen, wanton, selfish—_ is that all I am to you? What was it you denounced me as? _A glorified servant of ill repute and dangerous method?_ How your accusations fall when I find myself restricted to the subsidiary of your attentions. When you spared me not a _passing glance_ for you suspected, without evidence, the vile wickedness of my heart?

You starve and near exhaust me.

How I long to unpin your raven tresses, to weave my fingers through your hair and see if you would bemoan the touch as too gentle for your lion heart. There is something I admire about you, precious girl—loyalty, it must be said, is too rare a commodity in these modern times. Yet pragmatism is rarer still. How unique for me to bear witness to you then, a juxtaposition of virtue and vice. What was it about you that captivated me so? What is it about you that captivates me still?

My dark haired Salome—

I ask for so little and my demands are few—if you will only fear me, _love_ me, do as I say…I would become your humble and willing slave for all eternity. You precious thing, can you not see how ardently I adore you? I have been generous until now with my patience but sweetling, never forget—I can be as cruel as I am kind.

Let the blissful gates remain unbar’d and let no impediment halt me. I am an ever ravenous purveyor of beauty and you, Persephone dearest, are the loveliest icon of all.

 

With catholic devotion,

 

_S. Michaelis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “No virgin choir need sing…” references John Keats poem ‘Ode to Psyche’. It is a dramatic (and expanded) sonnet that details the love affair between Cupid and his human lover, the princess Psyche. 
> 
> \- “Let the blissful gates remain unbar’d” references the poem of the same name by Alexander Hamilton. In the poem, Hamilton writes of his soul ascending to heaven. (Here, Sebastian is committing outright blasphemy by calling the reader his ‘heaven’ and demanding that he have the right to call upon her.) 
> 
> \- Kore…Persephone: before Hades made Persephone queen of the Underworld, she was known as Kore, daughter of Demeter and goddess of spring. Beneath the reader’s seemingly innocent facade lies a femme fatale Sebastian wants unleash—and he’ll get his wish, by hook or by crook. 
> 
> \- Salome: references the painting of the same name by the Italian painter Titian (1488-1576). She is famous for having demanded and received the head of John the Baptist. 
> 
> \- “You starve and near exhaust me” & “I ask for so little…” yes, yes, a thousand times yes—they’re references to the 1986 film ‘Labyrinth’ starring the deliciously sly David Bowie and enchantingly pretty Jennifer Connelly. (Sarah and the Goblin King’s waltz is probably one of my all time cinematic faves.) 
> 
> A/N: For the very sweet reviewer anonymity! I hope you liked this! :)


	37. Halcyon days (Alice Spears x Ronald Knox)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debonair playboy Ronald Knox falls in love with Alice Spears, the only daughter of his boss, William T. Spears. (Or: adventures in a not-so-secret romance) 
> 
> Personalized letter for BlackButlerFan13

Dolly—

Sorry about the ruckus last night. Marjorie hosted a dinner party and some things got out of control after Ted and Ian found the peyote and had to be dragged out ( _literally_ dragged out) by our favorite Crimson Reaper. And even though this isn’t chivalrous or, you know, _decent_ —I’ve enclosed a few polaroids of Ted kissing a cactus and Ian proposing to Winona (who emptied half a glass of champagne on his head and denounced his dangling modifier—have you been tutoring people on proper grammatical structure?). Anyway, I’m just writing you this before I head down to London—and I can’t believe I’m doing it in pencil. 

I’ve also got to apologize for bumping into you last week while we were at HQ. Although to be fair, you’ve got breasts that could halt the Spanish Armada and then some. (Am I making you blush? If truth be truth I must say this, your blush is the very color of begonias in bloom and I will never, ever tire of seeing it.) I also must specify that I’ve become rather possessive of your maladroit charm. This (probably) sounds uncouth (and if your father ever found out I would _certainly_ be relegated to paperwork for the next millennium) but I’ve memorized each and every time you’ve smiled. You’ve got the softest, sweetest smile Alice—and it’s one I can’t get enough of.

You remind me of the gardenia flower, you know that? Fair and pale and perfectly petite—you fit into my arms each and every time you run into me. Even your scent intoxicates—all dark chocolate and sweet black cherries—you’ve truly mastered the art of enchanting saps like me. You are, in the midst of everything, a pale white asphodel of ivory artistry. (Sorry if this isn’t any more poetic but I’ve only begun reading through your recommended list of poems last week.)

Truthfully, I can’t understand why I’m confessing all this to you—twice I’ve made myself look the fool in your eyes but even if you think me foolhardy and inept, at least you’re thinking of me. I think about you constantly; from your diligent, unwavering work ethic to how you’re a paragon of grace and charity—there won’t be a finer Reaper in all the realm once you’ve realized your worth. Even in this imperfect state, you devour the many disappointments of the world and manage to keep on smiling. People around the office might think of you as Spears 2.0 but your altruism is too far extended and your heart’s too big to ever just be a clone of your father. That may be something you aspire to be but Dolly, you’re an entire _galaxy._ Vibrant and beautiful—I sound like the worst poet in all the 19th century (human or otherwise) and I’m sorry.

You deserve a lot more than this playboy facade and around you, I feel like I _am_ more. I’ve even read your bookmarked pages in _Civic and Asset Listings of the Mortal Plane_ —I, Ronald Knox, have read _word for word_ seventeen pages of a real estate manual. I’m delusional at this point, aren’t I?

I guess, in the end, I only want to tell you this, Alice—I am enamored, unbalanced, and in limerence. I'm caught up in limitations trying to tell you just how much I care for you because there's no language that spells out what I feel. Not really. 

But because you seem to know me better than myself, I feel obligated to toe the line of danger and ask, with a rather bemused smile, if you’d care to accompany me to dinner some night? I know Mr. Spears Sr. would never approve—and this sounds like a penny dreadful cliche—but after mowing down a demon on a sinking luxury liner, I feel it’s within my rights to roll the die every now and then. 

You're my sunflower, you know that?

 

Attentively yours,

Ron

 

P.S. Grell’s delivering this as a favor because 1) she thinks you’re the purest princess in all the world and 2) I beat her at cards. (I hope this impresses you just a _little_ bit, since she could've run me through with a chainsaw at any moment.) 

* * *

Dearest Ronald,

I know you dislike being called by your full name but I think it makes the letterhead look more professional, don’t you? I apologize for the lateness of this reply but between my studies and father’s monitoring, I haven’t had a moment of privacy since last week. Please don’t think I’ve been ignoring you—I haven’t Ron, truly. I would never do anything of the sort because I—well, you’ve called yourself foolish but I suspect the term applies doubly on my part. This is the third draft I’ve written and I don’t believe it’s any better than the last.

Still, I must write because I miss you. My cheeks are red and I’m breathing very softly since this confession is quite improper—even if we’re in the Shinigami realm.

I’ve wanted to say yes to your invitation for so long (eight days, nineteen hours, and forty two minutes to be exact) but I haven’t mastered the courage to approach you just yet. You must think me a coward but I wouldn’t like to embarrass you (or, heaven forbid, have father bear witness to any of this). That wink you gave me yesterday morning sent me into a frenzy, you know. I didn’t think you’d see me (though the thought feels very foolish now) since the room was so terribly crowded and I rarely ever make a sound. But across the office you spied me and gave me such a wicked, devilish wink that I didn’t know what to do or say.

Auntie Grell informed me that you were a wreck after giving her your letter and I blushed when she told me so. I can’t imagine you looking anything less than pristine, Ron. Pristine and charming and wonderful—you make me feel as I could do just about anything. All these expectations I’ve imposed on myself seem to fade away even though you’re one of the few people who support my aspirations.

But _gracious_ , it seems as if I am unable to write any more. It is five o’clock and I must begin my review on the guidelines of transatlantic visitational souls. It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted, isn’t it? My words are not anything special but simply knowing that I am addressing this letter to you makes me feel as if I have sipped from the cup of Venus.

I shall write again soon (or perhaps impatience will finally supersede my control and I will kiss you full on the mouth).

 

Love,

_Alice_

* * *

**Bonus! Alice's first letter to Ronald Knox:**

Dear Mr. Knox,

On behalf of my father, William T. Spears, I must remind you that when filling out paperwork regarding property damage in the human world, it is necessary to write down the location, longitude, latitude as well as what structure was fractured in the midst of your reaping. This rule is stipulated in section 44A, cross section 592-5 in your _Civic and Asset Listings of the Mortal Plane_ handbook. Please keep this with you at all times as your previous violations make you eligible for suspension. I have taken the liberty of filling out your three neglected forms (not because I wanted to but because I wouldn’t much like it if you were suspended—not for any sentimental reason, of course).

Sr. Sutcliffe has agreed to deliver this letter to you. If you wish to respond, please do so discreetly.

 

Regards,

_Alice A. Spears_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Asphodel: an immortal flower that, in Greek myth, was said to grow in the Elysian fields. 
> 
> \- “you devour the many disappointments…” references George Eliot’s novel ‘Middlemarch’ (published in installments from 1871-72) which tells of an idealistic young woman who endeavors to better the people around her. (George Eliot was merely her pseudonym; the author’s actual name was Mary Ann Evans.) 
> 
> \- Penny dreadful: a cheap, sensational comic or serialized story popular during the Victorian era. 
> 
> \- “It is always fatal…” also comes from George Eliot’s ‘Middlemarch’. 
> 
> A/N: Alice and Ronald. Ronald and Alice. Sweet and earnest. I hope you liked this BlackButlerFan13! :) 
> 
> Note: Requests will only be open for 2 more days (ends July 7th)! Thank you for your participation and patience :)


	38. Under the oak and linden canopy (Reader x Edward Midford)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through quiet love and scintillating wit, a softer love blooms between a marquis' heir and a kindhearted countess. 
> 
> Personalized letter for PrometheusAprroved

_Her grace, the Dowager Countess of Carlisle_

 

My Lady Carlisle,

I hope you will forgive me for presuming to write to you without permission but upon chancing your acquaintance at the duke of Albemarle’s banquet, I have been unable to think of anyone or anything else. I understand that such a forward address is unwieldy and supercilious but your convivial charm brought me such joy and happiness that I felt it necessary to see you again—if only once more. Though we spoke for barely half an hour, your words contained the prudence and counsel of wise Hypatia. Full of genteel grace and cautious observation, your graciousness knew no bounds.

Perhaps you were too cordial to acknowledge my bumbling senselessness when I approached you, full of sharp academia and unvarnished experience. The wit and pleasantry of our badinage enlightened me to the point where I cared not for any other guest in attendance. So few delight in the moral discussion of Immanuel Kant and while I myself am a proud Englishman, I will willingly pay tribute to the savants and theorists who have enlightened man’s minds with ink and quill. Your own acumen is equal to that of any man—perhaps more so as even Professor Granville could not convey the depth and conviction of epistemological thought the way you did that night.

I pray you do not take my words in jest. Nothing short of the holiest feeling would ever prompt me to write without cause but I fear, even now, I may have intruded upon your notice with cavalier solecism. I have resorted to my pen in an effort to maintain polite decorum but the memory of you serves to disorder my heart and mind. Dearest Lady Carlisle, if I could only speak with you for a few moments each day, I would be the happiest man in all the Empire.

If you would grant me permission, I should like to recount the image I first held when I saw you enter his grace’s ballroom. Though other ladies chose colors of bright—almost blinding—merriment, you were a tender dove, dressed in a gown of soft grey silk with white gold decorating your fair figure and pale skin. I ask for your accord in allowing me this selfish recollection for I suspect that in years to come, this shall be amongst my most treasured of memories. The soft curve of your smile—full of knowing patient grace—retired all my senses and I was left wondering how I should approach this English rose of Athenian design.

I would very much like to dance with you, my Lady Carlisle. Your protestations are of a modest sort that I cannot help but disparage as you, my lady, do walk on air.

If it would please and not inconvenience you, I will remain hopeful that your acquiescence may soon come. Impose upon me an enteral silence if that is your will and I shall honor your request with restraint and concord though, I can never bring myself to forget you and all your graces.

 

Yours with much esteem,

 

Lord E.A. Midford, Earl of Lindsey*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Dowager Countess of Carlisle” — the object of Edward’s affections is a mature, older woman (probably around 24, 27 or so) who has been widowed. It wasn’t uncommon to be widowed in one’s twenties though it was surprising if said widow remarried. Edward’s formality mainly stems from the fact that he is around 17 or 18 and a young, eligible bachelor who can have his pick of society beauties but instead, chooses to court a widowed countess. 
> 
> \- Hypatia: a Greek mathematician, astronomer, and philosopher who lived in Alexandria during 350 (or 370) to 415 AD. 
> 
> \- Immanuel Kant: an 18th century German philosopher who argued that reason is the source of morality. He is famous for his work regarding transcendental idealism and metaphysics as well as his ‘Critique of Pure Reason’ published in 1781. 
> 
> \- “the Empire” refers to the kingdom of Great Britain and the saying “the sun never sets on the British Empire”. 
> 
> \- “Athenian design” references both the Greek goddess of wisdom and craft, Athena, but also the highly developed city of Athens. 
> 
> *Based on Victorian precedence, I’m going to headcanon that Edward’s middle name is Alexis, after his father. Also most noble lands held subsidiary titles that were given to one’s children to distinguish heirs from second and third born sons. Like how the future king is named Prince of Wales, the future heirs of dukedoms, marquessates, earldoms, etc. were given preliminary inheritance titles as well. In this case, I chose the earldom of Lindsey. (The Tudors got me way obsessed with royal titles LOL) 
> 
> A/N: Finally, Edward Midford’s letter! Yes it’s even more formal than the pen of William T. Spears but Edward’s a proper English knight who, unlike most of the Black Butler characters, follows Victorian etiquette to a T. I formatted Edward’s letter according to the rules and guidelines of proper 19th century courtship and this is actually more “scandalous” than what was considered proper. 
> 
> This letter was very fun to create so thank you PrometheusAprroved for giving me the impetus to write/complete this! ♡


	39. Wing-whirring sparrows (Sieglinde x Lizzy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sieglinde Sullivan loves one girl better than all the rest and that girl is Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford. (And don't you dare question it.) 
> 
> Personalized letter for Lucyndareads

Quick, Lizzy—

Two gentlemen with black mustaches walk into a restaurant. The first one says “I think I’ll have a pint of H2O.” The second then adds “I think I’ll have H2O too.”

—And then he died.

There, do you see what you’ve done? You’ve ruined me utterly. I have not received a letter from you for so long a time that I have resorted to telling terrible chemistry jokes. (I’ve tested each and every single one of them on Wolfram as well so he most likely wishes that we’d never left Germany.) The only way to atone is to send me a banquet, artfully prepared by Sebastian. I am quite famished—though I suspect I’ll be satisfied with you, a dark room, and a multitude of kisses as well.

Some might think it scandalous but you gentry are so terribly prudish. I wonder how anyone in this country procreates if all you’re doing is sitting, sipping, and sighing the day away. We’re much better together, aren’t we Lizzy? I knew you liked me from the moment I saw you—graceful and powerful and strong, I think you gave the boy who stopped German tanks a coronary. It was quite funny and I would very much like to see you do it again. (Although perhaps with a shorter skirt on?)

I do miss holding your hand when we’re sitting underneath the pear blossom trees. You always smell like pears and rainwater and jasmine flowers, Lizzy—I just want to curl up into you and rest there for awhile. I don’t know if it’s unseemly for me to be missing you so much and from everything I’ve read and analyzed twice over, it isn’t. I certainly hope this news hasn’t upset you; I don’t much mind teasing Ciel but you’re a different story Lizzy. I always want to make you smile and have you hold me and engage in every (atrociously romantic) activity Miss Austen has ever conjectured.

I sound vulgar now, don’t I? 

I’ve never cared for vulgarity—after all, it’s Latinized definition means _common people_ and what am I but common? It is only around you that I wish to be thought well of. Oh, I would sooner swallow a porcupine quill then pay heed to any of that hogwash sprouted by those fuddy-duddy old wenches in their prune colored skirts and ostrich feather hats. I think I rather love you Lizzy Midford and I’ll write it on paper because I’m feeling quite cowardly at the moment. Perhaps I will even burn this letter (since I’ve written nothing sensible in it) because if there’s anything I want in this world other then your love, it’s your friendship.

You were the first person in this whole world who smiled at me with genuine happiness and you made me feel more human than I’d felt in years. Perhaps ever. Whenever I’m around you, I am happy—whether that's us laughing by the lily pond or conversing beneath the pear tree or even supping together in our secret hideaway, far away from the rest of this world. You holding my hand when the whole sky dims and everything is covered with a million sparkling stars. I feel so little and insignificant laying there on the grass, eyes gazing upward. But then you squeeze my hand and I look back at you and I remember all the wonderful things in this universe that I am privy too and suddenly, I think it’s _beautiful._

Oh Lizzy, if you only knew how much I want to make you happy. My table manners are sloppy and I’m not very polite but I’d be willing to learn those fussy English ways. I want to eat beside you at a restaurant one day and not have to worry if you’ll be ashamed to be seen with me. I like you far too much to be so selfish, Lizzy.

And now that I’ve written well into morning (is that a Western Kingbird fluttering outside my window? Must catalog that for later…and oh, drat! I can’t for the life of me remember what it is I was trying to say—)

Now that I have written well into the morning I think I shall bid you goodbye (only for a teensy while) and ask: are you made of beryllium, gold, and titanium?

Because you are BE-AU-TI-FULL. ♡

 

Truly yours,

 

_Sully_

 

P.S. I am currently perfecting the art of photography by adding a sort of mosaic screen plate so as to capture color. I want to have a picture of you Lizzy in all your golden glory. The lampblack will fill the spaces between the colored starch grains and allow me to coat a layer of silver halide emulsion on the top filter which I am positive will then produce an additive color to photographs. I look forward to taking pictures of you everywhere and anywhere—and I do mean _anywhere._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- H2O2 is the chemical compound for hydrogen peroxide. 
> 
> \- The process Sieglinde describes in her postscript is the Autochrome Lumière developed by the Lumière brothers in 1903. It was the principal color photography process until the advent of subtractive color film in the 1930s. 
> 
> \- Title comes from 'Ode to Aphrodite' by Sappho. (All personalized letter titles reference epic Greek romances ♡)
> 
> A/N: I just thought Sieglinde would love geeky chemistry jokes. So—here you are. This is my first time writing in Sieglinde’s voice so it may be a bit shaky but Sieglinde herself is quite changeable so (maybe) it fits her? 
> 
> Anyway, I hope I did the Sieglinde/Lizzy ship justice, Lucyndareads!
> 
> Edit: Idk why but I picture adult!Lizzy to look like Margot Robbie and adult!Sieglinde to look like Eva Green. Odd, huh.


	40. Galatea departed (Maria Everett Adams x Undertaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was a spiteful, vindictive, beautiful shrew - and the Undertaker missed her greatly. 
> 
> Personalized letter for Evans

_Lady Maria of the Sky—my much adored tyrant,_

 

It has been quite a few years since I last spoke your name (though this, in technical terms, is _writing_ so I suppose I have not yet broken my own record—how joyous!) but I’ve remembered something of you today which I thought I had long forgotten. Many would find my fateful act of penmanship to be one of saccharine romance but you have always been the exception, have you not? My vain, selfish vixen with your haughty grandeur and poisonous smile—do you feel rather  _insulted_ that I had waited 36 turns of the moon, to the _day_ —to finally write you? But neglect is something you do so very well that I felt duty bound to honor your delinquent hand on this auspicious occasion.

Ah, how this weather doth remind me of you—tempestuous and lonely, with not a streetwalker in sight. (Do excuse my coarse language but I imagine that after so many years of solitude you would enjoy the philistine’s charms.) I can recollect—with perfect accuracy—the very words you spoke to me. How you teetered into my shop on your high horse and dignity. Like a dappled white mare. A fine breed of horse ready to be mounted and lamed.

Your riposte was quick— _“I never give into excess—neither of words nor time—unless it is a person I will soon abandon.”_

And _oh,_ the _honesty!_ My dear if you were to be guillotined before all of France, you would still turn to your executioner and inquire if he would be willing to adjust your maiden’s cap—for you would never suffer the degradation of doing so yourself. And how quickly you took to my little shop! Your visitations were a welcome distraction though you often overstayed your visit and had not the courtesy to depart without asking if I too, with all my criminal virtues, would be willing to strike you in the heart. But my darling, dear girl—have you a heart?

Upon a bed of roses you were laid, arrayed and disarrayed—all in a veil of silk and silver sin. I ought to have scrutinized you better on first glance for you are so very _pretty_ , with your cherubic mouth and long, golden hair. A pity indeed if I were to cut it all off.  

How lonesome and dreary it is that you had to die.

I fit you into one of my specially made coffins—and for you, my serpent’s eye, I chose English rosewood—lined with black velvet for you were so very _vain_ about your sun-gold hair. Preening and prancing, dressed in delphinium silks, parading your beauty for all the world to see before you led them into your lair and devoured their hearts, minds, and bank accounts dear. How characteristic that the perverse heart would desire what is out of reach. Man denied you equality so you denied them dignity. How very _funny._

I looked at you for many hours after your passed, dearest. _La belle dame sans merci, défait à la dernière!_ And by _what._ Tuberculosis. The common man’s disease.

How you _disappoint_ me, my _dame sans merci._ Did you know, for a very long time thereafter, I felt something akin to anger rile up within me? How perplexing! How strange! I laughed for days on end when I realized that no matter how lovely you looked, lying still and sweet in my handmade coffin, you would never be able to open those vindictive blue eyes. And while I had thought of preserving your eyes, I then wished to keep your mouth—your fiendish, rose red mouth—and then I yearned for your voice. Your dark horizon voice. I could not fathom the strangeness of it all, the undeniable sensation that something had been lost without ever having been opened.

Within these fleeting years I have conjectured that what we have lost is something we have purged and then discarded. I had once thought I would be content seeing only the theatre of your expressions—the dawning of repose and your hurricane fury. You, with all your charms and bitter deceit, have convened in me an object of deplorable affection though it is not—and will never be—that sentimental human emotion Juliet loved best. If you had been less cruel, perhaps I would have kissed you.

We could have been nothing more than the spring yew tree had we chosen such a path. We abuse admiration as one does hate. What is proceeded by pleasure would have ended in aversion and, as I am a man of singular honesty, I rather dislike the possibility of loathing you. Nevertheless, you have thoroughly occupied quite a few hours of my time and I hear the little earl approaching. It would have been so _marvelous_ for the two of you to meet—perhaps you would have detested him as well.

My false, faithless beauty.

 

Adieu till then,

 

_Undertaker_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “I never give into excess…” modified from Choderlos de Laclos’ ‘Dangerous Liaisons’. 
> 
> \- “Upon a bed of roses you were laid…” a description of the femme fatale Acrasia from Spenser’s ‘The Faerie Queene’. Here, she is attempting to seduce the virtuous Sir Guyon who nobly resists her charms. 
> 
> \- La belle dame sans merci, défait à la dernière: the maiden without mercy, defeated at last! (Also references the poem ‘La belle dame sans merci’ by John Keats, which speaks of a ghostly beauty who lures kings and princes to their deaths in an elfin grotto.) 
> 
> \- Juliet: refers to Romeo and Juliet. 
> 
> A/N: This was so much fun to write so huge thanks to Evans for requesting this femme fatale! I based some parts of her character on the Marquise de Merteuil, one of the cleverest (and most dangerous) women in literature. I hope I did your OC justice, Evans!


	41. A tempest of passion (Alois Trancy request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Alyona Aleksandra Konstantinovna, niece to the Russian tsar, captures the heart, mind, and obsession of Lord Alois Trancy. 
> 
> Personalized letter for Art3mis116

_The_ EARL OF TRANCY _to the_ PRINCESS ALYONA ALEKSANDRA KONSTANTINOVNA

 

There can be no other way to say this—with delicacy or otherwise. I am so tired of societal boundaries that if propriety were a man, I would take my hand and gouge from him both eyes and carve into his forehead a permanent penance.

I am tired of being kept away from you.

In the space of four days I have given myself to violent passion and now, I cannot close my eyes without seeing your face. Everything about you is a dream for the romantics—peach satin skin, thick chestnut hair that spills down your back like a waterfall. Bronze and indigo weaved in it whenever you step into the sunlight. Have you noticed? Since your arrival on this cruel isle, England has done nothing but radiate joy and excitement and I cannot disparage her fickle nature. You have enraptured me as well. If I were to be denied by you, my self-esteem would never pillage, destroy, or rise again.

My tsarina, you danced with me until the sky dyed itself a burning ochre whereupon we danced some more. You were the sweet champagne I was drunk on that night and with every word, I became drunker still. Everything—everything!—about your charm was sweet and soft and loving. If I were convinced mercy existed, you would personify its fine grace. Though at first, I thought you insolent—you laughed so rarely and often froze conversation over with the coolness of your gaze. But upon conversing with you sometime later, I realized you had snatched a piece of my heart and led me directly to you. My tsarina—who only smiles when she is genuinely amused; who is taken by what society might deem trifling amusements and who, when she spies a figure of wretched repose, gives unto them her unsullied joy and boundless compassion. 

If you wish to know the whole, ugly truth—I will tell you. I will tell you how I had my butler coach me for hours on end until I could put prose to paper. How I educated myself on poetry because I knew you favored it. How I read novels and plays and whatever else I thought you might enjoy so that if my charms were half as great as your own, we would be able to discuss our mutual affection through ridiculous innuendos and subtleties*. Yet, you must love me some, don’t you? For you spoke to me with the tenderest smile, one that lit your lovely hazel eyes and had me seeing stars and comets and every other beautiful thing I thought dead.

Why must you torment me so!

I have been made exhausted and anxious and so full of troubling anger (though none of this is directed at you, none at all!) for denial has been my only companion since you departed all those hours ago. I miss you and want you in my arms. I loathe those heavy skirts you wear and want you unencumbered when I finally embrace you. To see your rosy pale body illuminated by pale moonlight while I bring myself on top of you—for I have so many kisses to give. I tire of restraint. I tire of courtesy, decency, and _propriety._ Sick to death of it all! I want to bury my fingers in your hair and hear you cry out in pain and pleasure while I ravish you beneath me.

I am furious beyond all conventional belief in knowing that I must wait until the next social event to see you. There has only been one other lover I have felt so impassioned towards but that ardor is like a candle’s flame compared to this inferno burning inside me now. Your soft sweetness overwhelms and you are so very generous with your love that I wish to be selfish and keep it all to myself. Only I will be able to kiss, lick, and caress your sacred flesh; only I will be able to bury my face in your neck and inhale the fragrance of sweet peas and starlight.

Only I will be allowed the indulgence of living between your thighs until you scream yourself hoarse and tremble in agony when I am away. Only I will be allowed to hear you say _I love you_ because I already tire of sharing. I have shared so much of myself in these few short years that I cannot bear to share you as well. You are mine. Say you are mine?

If you ask, I would humble myself before your statue at first light. I will indulge your every whim and fancy for I have so much to give and would expect so little in return—I want nothing but the feel of your fingers brushing through my hair. You delighted laughter whenever you see me approaching. The feel of you against me each and every night—my sacred, beautiful lotus. I would endure the mortification of Christ if it meant I could be held in your arms later that evening. What must I do to convince you of my amorous and true devotion?

Acquit yourself of everything else and love me. Only me.

Around you, I feel a king. Nothing can bring me to recoil for fear of shame as you have stripped me of every indignity and placed around my shoulders a cloak of gold and crimson. You have given me your heart and now I wish to tell all the world you are _mine._

 

With fondest, purest affection,

 

_Alois_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It was common in the Victorian era to court using double entendres and follow the various subtle rules of courtship. Alois would have no doubt found them absurd. 
> 
> \- Tsarina: translates to "wife of the tsar" but Alois is using it in a more endearing term by calling her his queen. 
> 
> \- "the mortification of Christ" refers to the flagellation of Jesus before he was crucified. 
> 
> A/N: The rapid changes in mood are intentional because Alois (in canon) suffers from some sort of emotional disorder which has him switching between anger, sadness, and joy like a lightening storm. Thus, I tried to convey his rapid changes in mood here because this woman has so enraptured Alois in every sense of the word. A Russian princess who danced every dance with him—him! A common street rat contracted to a demon who will one day eat his soul. Alois is drunk on her love and, with ambition and greed, wants more of it. 
> 
> Much of this letter was inspired by the writings of the Vicomte de Valmont from de Laclos’s ‘Dangerous Liaisons’. 
> 
> Thank you so much to Art3mis116 who pretty much let my imagination run wild with this page of correspondence. I hope you liked it!


	42. Of dim and solitary loveliness (Walter Ferris & Grell Sutcliff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cool and dignified - but painfully shy - Walter Ferris asks resident society queen Grell Sutcliff for some advice. 
> 
> Personalized letter for Awesomegurl_5450

_From the (fabulous) desk of G. Sutcliff:_

 

Why darling!

How tremendous it is to hear from you again! You should know that I’ve been worried sick after you last left my little gathering before any guests even arrived. (That was horribly rude, don’t you know? I had three perfectly lovely ladies who wanted to make your acquaintance and there you _weren't_! Leaving me to scramble for answers—you are fortunate that I am always so eloquent and managed to distract them but _darling!_ What a storm!)

You mustn’t think I blame you as you know how perfectly well I adore you—what a wonderful addition to our little Association! You _are_ like Will, aren’t you? But so much sweeter. You’d be the type to swim from Sestos to Abydos just to give a girl a flower.

But still, let us begin our correspondence of education! It’s expected that you would come to me for advice and I take my role in mentoring _very_ seriously (Will might agree to disagree but you should see that naughty boy when I’ve got him tied to the bedposts—silk scarves and nothing on). If you wish to become more convivial around people you must, first and foremost, be willing to _talk._ You’re such a handsome man, don’t you know? Tall and lean with that brooding, incomprehensible gaze—all women love a Byronic hero. You possess the coldness of a distant star and it is a truth universally acknowledged that when one is so far removed from conversation, someone else is bound to try and engage you in it.

I suggest you come to my abode (Thursday evenings) for poker or blackjack. With those long, deft fingers and your skillful craft, I am positive you’d become our champion by night’s end.

I could never understand how you could be so gentle with all those rough mechanizations—the heat and fire and hot, slick folds…isn’t metalworking terribly dangerous? I can never smelt anything without burning myself. You should know that Fred darling is very interested in machinery and Seth Anderson from Denmark. (He’s a new transfer, have you seen him around? Delicious man with pale blonde hair and an icy, imperceptible gaze…I shouldn’t tell anyone this but Will was so furious when I expressed interest in him that he had the poor boy relegated to another department! Oh, that night was _wonderful._ ) Anyway, he’s very fond of sculpture and mmh, does he have the hands to prove it. 

If truth be told, I don’t think you need to change anything about yourself Walter dearest. After all, if I thought you needed improvement I would have never befriended you in the first place. And so what if you’re a little quiet? Do you suppose I enjoy listening to the incessant chatter of everyone around me? Sometimes I like to monologue and who better to be around than you? Oh—I’m not saying you ought to be quiet for my sake (not at all!) only—you mustn't feel it necessary to become a social butterfly like myself. A smile from your lovely lips will do and once you begin conversation with another, you’ll find mutual interest a wide plain to walk across. 

Those muted gentlemen’s clubs and frenzied parties Ronnie attends aren’t the only events in the world, dearest. In fact, I know of a dinner that is going to be hosted by Nina Vickers and if Nina’s hosting you _know_ it’ll be a very stately affair. I think you should come—in fact, I demand it. William never likes these parties and you wouldn’t leave a lady such as myself alone would you? If there’s one thing I admire about you, it’s your chivalry. Chivalry that is unburdened by those clumsy suits of armor because you're already so wonderful. 

I don’t particularly like to discuss the details of my charm but I’ve long since given up trying to please everyone. You must never feel obligated to please a single soul in this whole universe other than yourself. I find that once you are properly situated with contentment, happiness will follow. I like to think my lovely Ann is finally happy, reunited with those she loves best. Have I ever told you about Ann? If not, remind me to do so someday. I think—had she lived—you would have loved her very much. It was impossible not to. She was my dear Cassandra and I loved her like a vengeful Apollo. A bit shamefully but with the truest of intentions.

Nevertheless! I expect you in fine form this weekend! Remember, Nina Vickers—I shall send you a photograph of our violet eyed beauty and once you see her you must promise not to fall in love _too_ quickly. If you focus all your attention on her the poor girl will be _quite_  overwhelmed! You simply don’t know the charm you possess when no one’s looking, do you? And if you find yourself doubting (as mortals are wont to do), then remember the kisses of Byron—

_There is a vigil, and these eyes but close_

_To look within; and yet I live, and bear_

_The aspect and the form of breathing men._

You are as great as any man, Walter dearest, for if you weren’t, I would have never bothered liking you in the first place. Goddesses such as I tire of generosity from time to time and thus befriend certain individuals very selfishly because they fill us with such great joy we cannot bear to see them go.

Oh and remember!—this weekend, ten o’clock _sharp_. The party starts at nine but arriving on time so nouveau. I prefer to remain cosmopolitan.

 

Lovingly,

 

_Grell_

 

PS—I would advise you to either hide this letter well or memorize it completely as Will can be a very jealous man from time to time. It’s rather delicious watching him paint others red and scarlet (though, he only does it in the heat of battle. I must work harder to incite some genuine rage out of him otherwise I will miss my crimson opera). Anyway, keep yourself safe, won’t you? I really do like you, dearest.

* * *

 

_From the (fabulous) desk of G. Sutcliff:_

 

Will darling—

Would you mind sitting this weekend out? Walter has finally decided to make his societal debut and what better way to grace the masses then through a dinner hosted by Nina Vickers? I know you only come for the food anyway but I promise to make it up to you this evening— and _all_ night long.

I've been feeling rather neglected of late since you've yet to see any of my new dresses. And here I was, purchasing such fine silks for you to rip off my eager and wanting body...I suppose I can have fun by myself anyhow. 

 

Kisses, 

_G_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “swim from Sestos to Abydos” references the poem ‘On Swimming from Sestos to Abydos’ by Lord Byron. The waters are cold and temperature freezing, with Byron even joking that “[with] the current…[so] hazardous…I doubt whether Leander’s conjugal affection must not have been a little chilled in his passage to Paradise.” 
> 
> \- “dear Cassandra and I loved her like a vengeful Apollo” references the myth of the Grecian princess Cassandra who was loved by Apollo. In an effort to win her love, Apollo gifted her with the gift of prophecy but when she denied him still, he ruefully countered that no one believe her prophecies, no matter how true they may be. 
> 
> \- Poem is an excerpt from Lord Byron’s dramatic poem ‘Manfred’ written between 1816 and 1817. It is believed to be based on Byron’s own doomed love for his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. (I imagine that Byron is amongst Grell’s favorite British poets.)
> 
> (And yes, that "Fred darling" phrase Grell writes is a reference to Breakfast at Tiffany's.) 
> 
> A/N: Grell, Grell, Grell—I just love writing this beauty! And thank you Awesomegurl_5450 for giving me such a cool OC recipient! (I also imagine that Will gifted Grell with some stationary one Christmas but Grell being Grell just couldn’t help adding in a few choice adjectives ;))


	43. Bleeding drops of red (Mary Phantomhive x Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought up in a convent on the outskirts of Calais, Mary Phantomhive returns to London after her brother's miraculous reappearance and unintentionally captures the obsession of one Sebastian Michaelis. 
> 
> Personalized letter for modgirl

_Piazza del S. Uffizio 11_

_00193 Rome, VATICAN CITY_

 

My dearest, Mary,

The tranquility of the manor is now at a standstill without the accompanying vexations of the other servants. Though they are incompetent with daily household tasks, their loyalty to the Phantomhive name is unparalleled and I have reinforced their resolve of death before surrender. I pray that you do not take offense to my liberal tone of voice for I have grown so fond and familiar around you that I cannot express myself any other way. It is unseemly that I should deviate from societal norm when addressing a lady such as yourself but I now take very little pleasure in my aesthetic if you are not beside me.

You must understand, I write to you not through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even mortal flesh. Tell me, my dearest Mary, what do you know of Doctor Faustus? Of Mephistopheles the devil? If you believe in the almighty above then surely you must believe in the inferno below. For one cannot coexist without the other, not since the fall of Lucifer and all the hell that arose with him.

You speak so passionately about salvation but you must know, my fairest dove, that there are some people who simply cannot be saved? I find that the purest expressions of truth rests in the cold blood of those who can speak no more. There are some who wish to march into the abyss with regal determination; those who wish to abandon the lovers they once loved best in order to seek revenge. Know, my sweetest dove, that I shall never abandon you. Let my memory linger—always—without the shadow of a ghost upon it; I am immortal in the ways of possession and even though you have given yourself, body and soul, to me…it is still not enough.

Do you find me wanting in that way? Nay, you grieve too purely to be so malicious. But these illusions are only temporary and we are not. Never think I will leave you behind; old age should burn and rage at the close of day but encased in my arms, I will bring you to a sable paradise of violet skies and black ocean fire. There is something wretched in me though I should think you fond of whatever mangled heart I possess. Yet I warn you, dearest dove, do not tempt what poetry calls the fiend angelical. 

Submit yourself in soul and spirit and I will reward you with caches beyond the bounty of man. I will pluck the moon’s pearl and place it in your mouth, I will string stars together for your vanity and see them wrapped tight around your throat. But, dare to tremble—for even the slightest moment—and the tentative attachment I have conceived towards you will burn away into something far more monstrous. The apex of my true self longs to debase your still-human form; to wrench ichor from your pale limbs and see anguish in your soft fawn eyes. I am two halves of one whole and you, darling dove, are an anomaly. I do not quite know where you fit except that you are mine to keep.

I have never seen cruelty in your eyes directed towards anyone so, please, if I may be at liberty to ask, keep your purity intact. I seek serenity in a realm so filled with vice and if you are to become my princess, then I ask you to rely on me for every thought and burden you may have. I shall tend to you quite lovingly my darling girl and dress you in fine silks and satins. Your word now accounts for so much more then promise—it will become a string, attached below your ribcage and infused with mine own heart. The slightest infraction would result in the artist’s funeral pyre and I have no wish to see you dead, though my tenancy often overwhelms my reason.

Mary, lovely sweet Mary, I would rather see you chained to me by the coils of death than in the arms of another man—mortal or otherwise. I would rather see you whimpering with desolate sorrow than happy with a paramour not of my own design. Can you grasp the hold you now wield over me? It has tempered beyond magic and now consumes me, wholly and mercilessly.

Death does not discriminate between sinners and saints. And you, sweet dove, are a saint of the highest order. One who would sacrifice her very own self to protect the ones you love. Thus, I urge you to remember this—your brother is not so precious, not so valuable to my sanity as you are. I am with him night and day and you, so far away on this pilgrimage, still haunt my waking hours. 

Rest—and love me well.

 

Affectionately,

 

_S. Michaelis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “I write to you not through the medium of custom…” — adapted from Charlotte Brontë’s ‘Jane Eyre’. 
> 
> \- “Doctor Faustus…Mephistopheles the devil” — both refer to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s epic, ‘Faust’, which tells the tale of a man driven to obsession who eventually makes a deal with a demon (Mephistopheles). 
> 
> \- “old age should burn and rage…” — lifted from the pen of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas from his best known poem ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’ which follows the climes of death. 
> 
> \- “Death does not discriminate…” — from Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant Broadway production, ‘Hamilton’. (Lyrics sung by Aaron Burr in one of my favorite numbers, ‘Wait For It’.) 
> 
> A/N: There’s another Hamilton reference in here so kudos whoever picks up on it ;) 
> 
> Alright this is my second attempt at a yandere!Sebastian and I chose to go for the cool, sickeningly sweet yandere. Throughout the letter Sebastian slowly deviates from praising and “submitting” to Mary to revealing his true nature, warning her that even the slightest wrong move on her part will end, not with her death, but Ciel’s demise and her eternal torment at his leisure. If that doesn’t scream yandere, then I apologize. (Tbh, yandere!Sebastian is just like normal Sebastian but without any restraint.) 
> 
> Once again, this is for my Spanish beauty modgirl—I hope you enjoyed this!


	44. Between love and virtue (Rebecca Abernathy x Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monster hunter Rebecca Abernathy has aroused the demon's interest - and his desire. What follows is a proposal of a most uncouth nature. 
> 
> Personalized letter for Awesomegurl_5450

Ah, the tempest’s shaken waves!

You once told me that we might get along a great deal better if I made a concerted effort not to sound like the latest novel. As such, I must reign in the verbosity of my admiration and confess to this—your dedication is of a most enjoyable mirth, both to myself and, hazard I to guess, you as well. Let us deny convention and write with free, eloquent thought (I have been informed this is all the rage in the newfound Americas) for we see each other with clear sight while having external devotion at hand. You wish to eradicate me from existence while I owe myself to my current master and cannot depart from this world without his say so. As such, we have come to an impasse and must resolve the fractious dispute we now find ourselves in.

I concede, though, the symmetry of your face is a curious thing. It arouses reactions that are not of my true nature and here, you must understand the verity of my words. Though you proclaim yourself a defender of the masses, I must insist that my interaction with the human race has been limited to the guests who frequent Phantomhive Manor that number, madam, is nominal to say the least. I cannot seem to reconcile the loveliness of you with the brutal nature of your profession. It is the oldest of the ancient arts and though the dignity afforded you is much greater than the scarlet women who roam about Whitechapel’s streets, the danger is all the same: an extreme, sudden panic that both electrifies and startles—a feeling you seem to relish, if I may be so bold to say.

That, though, may be a factor of your blood—not consequence. I have always enjoyed the vivacious valor inculcated within the vital virtuoso of your people. The expediency with which you rush towards death amuses the greater part of my being though some smaller voice reminds me that without you, all entertainment would pale in comparison to the sudden argentine bullets you swerve my way, calculated with such deadly precision that I do believe you mean to kill, not maim. And what laughable villainy it is, to find myself kept at bay by the sodium chloride that is now patented as the trade secret of all hunters. Yet—

If you are the hunter and I am the prey, would that make our interactions one of hedonism or pleasure?

For a human, you have given me a vaudeville like no other—and oh, how you seem to enjoy being bathed in moonlight. All our battles have commenced beneath fair Diana and I must hypothesize it is because you recognize the loveliness of your features, lit by the silvery luminescence of night. To remember our every conversation, buoyed by the crescendo of ammunition, while I held the soft curves of your body, your back pressed against the red brick alleyway.

Softly, let your perfumed breath linger on my lips so I may—for a moment’s fraction—commit your ardent desire to memory. I could ravish you with greater finesse if you would only allow it. And, if truth be told, I have already instilled your scent to memory—cinnamon and cloves, is that not the fragrance of Monaco’s streets? Of your mulatto heritage England seems to spit down upon? Humans, the triviality they possess ought to remind you that your endeavors are actions they will neither appreciate nor acknowledge.

Would it not be so much simpler to end this carnal dance with a final act of defiance? We have indulged ourselves in the confrontation for far too long—and no critic enjoys an overwrought play. For now, you have an exaggerated sense of my depravity but I can reassure you that my generosity is twice as full, if not more so. Vanity and happiness are incompatible—so why must you choose the former over the latter? I could grant you both joy and pleasure and if, as you preach so passionately, you do not wish for the touch of my hand…I have always been far better with my tongue.

This asphalt jungle commands you no more than it does me—and I so long to taste the caramel of your skin and see your emerald eyes blaze with resolution that is derived neither from my death nor your duty.

Show me what I must do to deserve you for I am, and always will be, a student of perfect indulgence. 

 

With amorous anticipation,

 

_Sebastian_

* * *

 

**Outtakes:**

You may choose to stay in this eternal dance but soon, the intimacy of our battles will lead to greater intimacy within the bedchamber and we will dance a dance that cannot be seen—unless you so wish it.

 

Can it be that you have grown fond of me? You fight with such strength and agility that I half wonder if it’s meant to impress. Humanity is such a vain race and I would not be surprised to discover this to be true. Oh, do not think me derisive for I am beguiled by the charm of your unintentional flattery and wish to reassert my claim: if you posit these interactions to be one of grand design, you think wrongly. I long to make your _every_ acquaintance—in the most biblical sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “For now, you have an exaggerated sense of my depravity…” modified quote from one of my favorite films based on one of my favorite books, ‘Dangerous Liaisons’. 
> 
> \- “This asphalt jungle…” refers to the 1950 film of the same name starring Marilyn Monroe and directed by John Huston. 
> 
> A/N: Awesomegurl_5450, have I told you how much I love your OC’s?! Rebecca Abernathy may just be one of my favorites! Badass monster hunter whose managed to bring out Sebastian’s playful side? Ayyyy! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! (This is probably one of my favorite letters and yes—Sebastian went from mocking Rebecca’s profession to asking her to come to bed. You have to admire his ambition LOL)


	45. Straight on 'til morning (Renée Foster x Alois Trancy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning. (Or: Alois Trancy finally meets his Wendy - and he's quite determined to keep her.)
> 
> Personalized letter for An_Old_Yet_Young_Soul

_May 24, 1890_

 

Dearest Renée,

I know it’s improper to address you by your given name but you insisted on it while we were both at that horrendous garden party hosted by the Baroness Mead. What a stout old bird, wouldn't you agree? I was rather worried she'd fall off her rocker and plow headfirst into the teacakes and punch bowl. I think she was rather drunk, don't you? She had a very raw look about her—very red lipped and stodgy, with her frail curly body. A bit like the caterpillars who hide in uneaten apples. (I sound very ungracious now, don't I? Well, she ought to have never invited me in the first place. I've always preferred gin.*) 

I actually don’t know how to write this letter. I’m not sure of anything anymore and—you seem to be the only consistency in my life. Won’t you please tell me that story again? The one about fairies and the Celtic twilight? You’re such a marvelous storyteller that I sometimes think you were made of pixie dust and rose petals and—God. Do I sound awful. I suppose it’s blasphemy to say the lord’s name in vain but I’m no good anyhow. I tried so hard to keep myself from laughing when you curtseyed before me, voice demure, breathily whispering _Earl Trancy_. I thought it the funniest jape in the whole wide world. 

You, who possess twice as much heart and dignity and kindness—bowing before _me._ I do not think myself lowly but there are times when I am plagued by an unspeakable loneliness and wonder if everyone who comes into my life is destined to say goodbye.

Goodbye.

That’s a wretched word, isn't it? Goodbye means leaving and leaving means forgetting. To forget and let go, like petals drifting in the breeze. That thought ought to distress me but I feel so calm writing this; I hear your voice dictating these words. Placid, soothing, tranquil—you are every beautiful thing on a summer evening. I am unsure who it is that dared harm your fragile heart but I promise, with your word alone, I will make him suffer the torture of a hundred martyrs and he will die a death that even the devil shall pity.

Even though I've known you for a week and a day, you remind me of those unaccountable lights that flicker across the Gaelic ruins at night. They say fairies and sprites hide there, waiting to aid weary travelers. Hannah told me this when I went on my first tour of Ireland. Did you know I own 190 acres of land there? 190 acres alongside 432 cows, six granaries, twelve corn mills, and so many employees I can't distinguish one face from the next? Please don’t frown at such a notion—I am not saying this to sound like an ill-made, spoiled little child. I am not saying it to impress you either. I say it because I wish there was someone—anyone—who would speak to me the way you did, with kindness and tenderness and something sweeter. 

I should like to think I know of ecstasies innumerable to other children even though I care very little for material wealth. It is more pleasurable to roam around a palace than a city square but why is it, then, that I feel so hollow? _“If you close your eyes and look very hard, you’ll see the shapeless pale colors of all the galaxies. And, if you squeeze your eyes shut still, you will begin to see all the stars and comets and suns and then, you will know that you are never alone.”_

You whispered this to me at that wretched garden party and since then, I have not been so afraid of the night.

I yearn for the darkness to come so I may shut my eyes and think of you. You, wondrous you. The stars illuminate your skin and Gaia has colored your hair; your eyes are a constellation I want to know more of and I miss you dreadfully while you’re away. If you should think me the least bit honorable (if not in manner then in heart), please write back to me. I would cherish any words you have to say and any songs you wish to sing.

 

Adieu until then—

 

_Alois_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The gin quip directed towards Baroness Mead refers to mead - the alcoholic beverage - made with honey, water, and added spices. In short, Alois is (snidely) pointing out that he, in effect, disliked the baroness herself. 
> 
> \- Gaia: known to the Greeks as earth’s personification and mother to the universe. 
> 
> A/N: I chose to use a more canon tone of voice for Alois here simply because, after reading J.M. Barrie’s ‘Peter Pan’, I saw a lot of Alois in Peter and a lot of Wendy in Renée. And thus, this was born. Thanks for giving me a chance to get back into the Celtic mythology vibe, An_Old_Yet_Young_Soul! I hope you liked this!


	46. The beauty of succulent illusions (Fallon Cartwright x Claude Faustus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cynical chemist with a pure heart intrigues the demon known as Claude Faustus. (And he'll stop at nothing to possess her.)
> 
> Personalized letter for Rhiannon

_Miss F. Cartwright_

_33 Avenue Drive, Lincoln Park_

_Chicago, IL60614_

_United States of America_

 

_January 3, 1895_

 

My dear Miss Cartwright,

There is a terse quietness in the air today that seems to permeate every corner of the manor. It is dense and heavy, weighing far too much in this cold weather and bringing with it the chilling realization of frost and hopelessness. I do often think back to your scientific endeavors with some show of vague curiosity though your black humor often debases even the purest of intentions. Tell me, have you found your god yet? Has he been dwelling at the bottom of your fine glass beaker, awaiting an experimental conformation? Everyone else in the world seems to accept the rigor of Roman Catholicism, if not the practice. You, erstwhile, dance folly with Saint-Saëns near a flaming Bastille and think it reasonable to presume science as the great linchpin of the world.

How your pragmatic mind sings to me when I hold you close, my grip tight against your intangible form, awaiting the break of day. If you have enraptured the interest of my conscious then I demand from you every ounce of reciprocated affection. Clever Miss Cartwright—have you fled England out of duty or piety? The thought of your escapade fills me with violent delight for I know we shall meet again very soon. Near the briar boroughs with their dark green thorns, the eventide making all rose blooms look like spots of spilt blood—you must return to me. 

I have endured the passage of time with solitary diligence and negligent concern but it seems, now, I must have you as well. I often tire of the place I am in and posit, with skeptical form, that the only bliss in the world might be the ruination of souls caught within my web. Human morality is such a fickle thing; full of avarice and distaste. The coordination of goodness and dignity is a hideous orientation—like the combination of ermine and mink, it is a crude indulgence of luxury that, in the end, only showcases vulgarity and garish insolence. It ought to be enumerated against—never pair lamb and champagne; never combine yellow and grey; never indulge goodness and morality.

To have you captured in my arms, buried under the earth’s equator, your translucent skin bruised and tainted by the venom of my touch—that is the only truth I will accept. Everything is superfluous and the growing aversion I feel towards my master is nothing short of catatonic. Have you ever seen a demon in flight? We are desperate, raging—longing for escape. I breathe against you and feel the hard-earned devotion of your soul; you would never despise me. You are the type to hold your true self at bay for unloved women do not have a past—they have histories.

And once I have memorized the experiences of your history, I will have gained entry into the dwelling of your heart and from there, I shall claim you mine and impress upon you the affection of my being without restraint or equivocation. I have watched you grow from a child of ten and two, limber and young with the dew of youth—and even then I wanted to kiss you. But fully grown, you are magnificent and the build of your body has as much a hold on me as the acuity of your mind. Softly curved and softly given, you arouse in me the intrigue of Paris and I find it admirable that you have worked without care to become the Helen of civilizations past. Between your thighs rests Troy itself and if I am to penetrate the armor of your soul, I must first begin by pervading the gates of your virtue—altogether and all at once.

There are few who know you outside the fumes of your laboratory and there are fewer still who would approach your character—trenchant and brusque. Yet the distance you string between yourself and humanity invites only the possibility of hell and all its villains. There is nothing for you in Chicago—nothing for you in a city that will not reach affluence for another decade or so. By then, I will escort you—white cloaked and worldly—to the country that has not yet reached its peak. You may try to escape my attentions but in this world of dull enjoyment and prototypical knaves, you are my sole possession. 

You have a place in my heart no one else could have.

Conjure your remedies in the haven of my hearth, let me cover you with the sins of pleasure and whisper to you desires you have never known. I will grant you the world and all its secrets but first—you must return to my arms once again.

 

Awaiting your return,

 

_C. Faustus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “dance folly with Saint-Saëns” — refers to the tonal poem composed by Camille Saint-Saëns in 1874 and better known to us as the Danse Macabre. 
> 
> \- Bastille: the infamous French prison stormed by angry Parisians before the French Revolution officially delved into war. 
> 
> \- “unloved women do not have a past…” — line borrowed from the ever expressive pen of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his tremendously composed 1922 novel, ‘The Beautiful and Damned’. (Thanks to goodandmythical for re-introducing me to the beauty of Scott’s glorious follow-up.) 
> 
> \- Paris…Helen…gates of Troy — all refers to the story of the Trojan War, begun after Prince Paris eloped with Helen, the queen of Sparta. 
> 
> A/N: Creepy Claude is oddly fun to write so I thank Rhiannon for giving me the chance to make him extra eerie and catenate. Your Miss Cartwright was a pleasure to meet!


	47. Love's strength to decay (Holly Lovejoy x Ciel Phantomhive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could match his biting wit, challenge his icy perceptions, and see beneath the earl's facade. 
> 
> Personalized letter for Holly Lovejoy

_December 9, 1892_

 

_The Right Honorable Lady Lovejoy, Baroness Vaux of Harrowden_

 

Most honorable lady, 

It is said that ambition must be made of sterner irony. The cross-existence of desire and duty rarely coincide though men with ambition force them into cohabitation. You once informed me that the rotation of the world spins not on the axis of personal enterprise but on the shared continuity of moral faith. I thought you idealistic and temperamental but here, I can belay no falsehood. In the covetous estuary of my lost nobility, I thought your passion the purest proof of human existence and knew not what to make of it. You countered my cold belligerence with the fire of one who has known nothing but hope, though you have been robbed of movement and derided by the societal graces of our blue-blooded echelon. 

You seem to dance with spritely fire and your words betray the summer of your soul. An irrefutable heat burns within your human self and I oft wonder—how can one person hold so much of the world in them? It is an inquiry I shall never seek to answer for if I do, you would consume the rest of my waking—and sleeping—days and in light of my forthcoming departure, I cannot betray your trust in such a fashion. 

I am to leave England—indeed, all of Britain—for a visitation that must remain within the bounds of confidence, one I cannot share with the soul of any other person. Though I am neither obligated nor moved to inform you of this progress, I do so freely and with an indescribable emotion I cannot quite place, for it falls beyond the bounds of common courtesy. Your prodigious birth ensured we would one day meet; your character ensured the continuity of my attentions. The integrity of your soul overcomes the remover; it is an ever-fixed mark that I look upon and marvel at, for it looks on tempests and is never shaken. I ask you not to think of this letter with any great fondness, as the words I write are but a pittance for what I truly wish to express. To you, let this be no more then the long-winded goodbye of one who desires not the journey of tomorrow. 

Yet I should hope by morning light, you will be riding your thoroughbreds—auburn hair flying—with all the fine finesse of one who has grown up amongst them; who has tamed the beast and made it gentle against the touch of your hand. It is neither proper nor elegant for a woman such as yourself to ride the horses you so breed but nothing about you has ever fallen into commonality. And there is selfishness in what I am about to say but it is narcissism at its finest—one I have surrounded myself with. Though there is difference between us and a divide that shall not be mentioned, we are too like-minded to ever fall into the satisfaction of a happy home and hearth. We are equal halves of a whole that is not quite wholesome and I suspect you would despise the banality of such common rigor were it otherwise. 

Within this world of cavaliers and philosophers, you count amongst the few who can actively dispose of Cassius but not dominate power for yourself. There is something admirable in your desire for equanimity though, at times, you can be as selfish as I. Perhaps that is what I find to be the most provocative subdivision between us—I am wholly immersed in a world you could understand (but despise) while you yourself sit on the cusp of reason and philosophy. Let our discussions, discreet and lean, become new convictions. 

May you find violets in the spring, and know of some other beauty beyond that of winter and its icy abode. 

 

In strictest confidence—adieu, 

 

_Earl Phantomhive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “The integrity of your soul overcomes the remover…” beginning there, Ciel is quoting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 (better known as “the marriage of true minds”) which describes a relationship that is both intellectual and erotic. In short, this is Ciel’s heavily veiled attempt to inform the reader that he is, indeed, in love with her. (Mainly because the journey he’s going on will most likely be the one that will finish the contract between him and Sebastian.) 
> 
> \- Cassius: refers to the quote “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look,/ He thinks too much; such men are dangerous” from William Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’, which warns against ambition and power. 
> 
> \- Violets in the Victorian era meant watchfulness, faithfulness, and love. 
> 
> A/N: I had quite a bit of fun writing Ciel here, suppressing his emotions and dictating coldness all the while yearning for the camaraderie of love. He’s always such a closed off kitten and I wanted to keep him in character but also divulge some of his heart: to earn the respect of the earl is an accomplishment few have achieved. To receive the earl’s thoughts—haphazard and volatile as they are—is a treasure few outside Sebastian witness so kudos, Lady Lovejoy, on your accomplishment! (I also hope you don’t mind me making you a baroness, I just liked the title that came attached with it ^^) 
> 
> Well—that’s it folks! Thank you to everyone who participated in submitting their OC’s—I had a tremendous time writing letters for you all! Reading the backgrounds you created for these ladies and gents was a fantastically fun experience :) I’m immensely grateful for all the support this fic has received and even more grateful for all the people I’ve met while writing it—you’re golden, each and every one of you ♡


	48. The tempest aroused (Edward Midford)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Midford encounters a peculiar young woman at the first Funtom Five concert. (post 118)
> 
> (Er, things get a bit graphic.)

_ My lady true,  _

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement. I cannot express to you how ardently I have come to adore you—each and every part of you—and I know that I shall not be able to convey in ink what I cannot convey in words. Please, I beseech you—though you do not know me, you have me. From the glittering lights of the soundstage I could only see the fawn brown of your eyes, the tender smile of your lips, and the fond laughter you gifted to those around you. 

I so long to hear your laughter again. 

I must be going mad but these few days have altered everything I know about the world. You may wonder how I could have toppled so helplessly into Eros’s hold but logic and reason—the two placeholders of my life—fail me in answering such an inquiry. I suppose if I sat here and ruminated on all your charms, this letter would no longer be an expression of my heart but a list of your ceaseless abundance of virtues. Your kindness, your quiet dignity—how could one raised in the world of aristocracy find it in their heart to show true benevolence to the “lesser folk” around them? You came with a pilgrimage of orphans, tending and caring for them as if they were your own kin. You wiped the tears of those who were afraid and told stories to those who could not remember the lullabies of their mothers. 

With your cupid’s bow mouth you drew me near. With your effortless kindness you enraptured me still. With your beautiful, contented smile you inspired more love in me than any other woman could in a lifetime. 

I understand that everything I have written is nothing short of scandalous but if you only knew what I **truly** wish to do to you…to hold your soft, supple body in my arms—freed from the confines of your simple muslin shift—I would kiss the exposed skin of your neck and relish in the soft shudders of your half-naked body. How your breathing would hitch and your beautiful, beautiful mouth open in a pliant, willing ‘o’ and how you might press me closer so I could tug the flimsy white cloth down and take your rosy, pert nipple into my mouth and touch you—my hands firm, protective, and searching. 

How my fingers will dance down the curves of your body until I arrive at your rose-wet cave and hear your soft gasp of desire. I would have you splayed before me, back pressed against the softest satin, before I humble myself at your alter and taste the ambrosial sweetness of your folds. Please—I yearn to feel your fingers threading through my hair, tugging and pulling while your slim white thighs are tucked over my shoulders. My hands explore the softness of your breasts and my tongue wishes to caress each and every corner of _you,_ until you cry out with pleasure at long last and tremble in my arms because I cannot think of anything else but _this._

Nothing I eat will be sweeter then the warm haven between your thighs. I sometimes wish to coat my mouth with honey before diving into you, intermingling the stickiness of that golden syrup with the purity of your sweet, delicious quim. 

At night, when you command total dominance of my mind, I dream of lying down beneath you and holding your hips in my hands. I dream of bringing you closer and closer above me until all I see is the rose-pink of your slick, wet folds and I dream of you pressing yourself against me lips—my lips, nose, cheek, mouth—so I may taste _you_ at long last. 

Please—forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. The lewdness of my words cannot be helped. I feel as if I have dined at Venus’s table and drunk a draught of the headiest love potion available. I have become useless—listless—without the balm of your touch. I dream of your fingertips (wrist scented like the orange blossom) grazing against my cheek. I dream of love in your eyes. 

This, then, is my splendid sin—one that I will commit without remorse because you, my earthbound angel, you are worth an eternity in purgatory. You revitalize and enchant me beyond all reasonable possibility and I only wish to give you some small measure of happiness as well. 

 

Till we meet again, 

 

_Lord Edward A. Midford_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person…” lifted from one of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s numerous love letters to wife, Zelda. 
> 
> \- “This, then, is a splendid sin” — line adapted from E.E. Cummings’ erotic poem ‘ix’. 
> 
> A/N: Influenced by the erotic poetry of Adrienne Rich and E.E. Cummings. 
> 
> I know canon!Edward would never write this but I imagine that Ed penned this right after performing on stage and was on an adrenaline high so this can make *some* sense. Therefore—please suspend reality for a while as you’re reading LOL
> 
> Feedback would be lovely! :)


	49. Remembrance of things past (Beast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beast confesses her love to Joker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long overdue letter for one of Kuro's most misunderstood ladies.

Joker, 

I feel so foolish writing you a letter here in my tent when you’re only twenty feet away. It feels stupid and unnecessary but at the same time, I don’t know if I’ll be able to say these next few words out loud. I love our family and I love our circus; I love this home we’ve been able to build for ourselves and I love seeing happiness surrounding us instead of death and misery. You gave—you give—us happiness, Joker. _You._

I will be the first to admit that I am terribly, wickedly selfish. There are nights when I dream of us being far, far away from England all its torments. I dream that we are safe and warm and happy; that we no longer have Father breathing down our necks, ordering our next move. I don’t want to listen to him any longer—I just want to be with you. I don’t want to see any more sadness in your eyes—not when you make everyone around you so happy. Sometimes their happiness sickens me; I want to tell someone—anyone—of everything you’ve sacrificed but then I realize I would be destroying everything you’ve built up. So I keep my silence. 

But here, on this sheet of paper, I can forget the world and speak to you from my heart—my own heart. 

Every time we return from another confrontation with Father, you become withdrawn and carry such anguish in your heart though you do your best to prevent us from seeing it. And your best is so hideously wonderful that I hate you for it—I hate how you feel as if you must shoulder this burden alone. I hate how you won’t confide in me and I hate how I’m telling you all this because I don’t hate you at all—I love you so much I feel as if I might burst with grief. If you would only speak to me— _truly_ speak to me—I would take on any task you assign, do anything you wish, break every law on your behalf. Whatever you command, I will listen. 

Do you remember when we performed in Glasgow? When Betty jumped through five hoops of fire and the crowd gave us a standing ovation? An old man approached me then, he was wheeling a cart of chestnuts and gave me a bag for free. He said he wanted to thank me somehow but didn’t have the money to buy flowers because he’d spent it all on our show. He said he admired how I loved Betty but also reminded me that no man is good enough to be another’s master. Maybe it was his own wisdom or that of some deceased poet—I can’t remember. What I do remember is the sincerity of his words and the tender way he spoke them to me. There are so few people in this world who truly care about one another. We can feign concern when it’s easy for us to do but alone, we can be as selfish as we like. 

I care for a limited amount of people and even then I fall short. But you, Joker, you care about the whole world and for people you haven’t even met. Your heart is twice as big as it should be and when I look at you, I fall in love all over again. 

How can you be so good and decent in this terrible time? How can you do what Father orders you to do for the sake of children you haven’t even met? How can you smile and laugh and perform for strangers? How can you take in the broken and bastardized and _love them?_ How can you care for everyone else in this world _except_ me? 

I don’t want the love you give the troupe members. I don’t want the love you give towards those in need. 

I want your love—the love that burns and scorches and stains your soul purple and orange and every other beautiful, vibrant color that’s ever been created. I want you to love me in all the ways a man can love a woman because I want so much for you and so much for us. I want to scream at how we’ve all been hung on nooses to die while you still fight for life and I dream of what awaits us beyond death. In death, would you finally be mine? Mine to love and kiss and touch? You once said you wanted to carry me over the hills and far away but—I don’t need you to carry me, Joker. I just want to walk beside you. 

That’s all I have ever wanted—to be near you and comfort you and perhaps, if I give enough of myself, you’ll let me love you as well. 

I hope London holds better things for us. I hope London is the last city we will ever have to visit on Father’s orders. I hope that we can escape afterwards and travel the world. Do you remember that commodore we met in Edinburgh? He showed me a map of the world with all its curves and cliffs and unceasing, endless oceans. He showed me Monaco with its yellow spice sun. He pointed out Barcelona nestled in the heart of Spain. He told me stories of Poland and Belgium and Oslo. He said he would take me anywhere I wanted to go but those countries don’t mean anything to me if you’re not by my side. 

I hope London will grant us peace at last. 

 

Love, 

_Mally_ *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In the anime it said Beast’s name was Mally and while I know the anime’s not canon, I just thought it’d be more genuine if Beast signed off with her birth name (whatever that may be) instead of her circus moniker. 
> 
> \- “no man is good enough to be another’s master” — modified quote from English author William Morris. 
> 
> A/N: I can’t remember if Beast was literate or not but—she is here. It’s more relaxed then the other letters just because Beast hasn’t been properly educated but she’s smart enough to be able to recognize and verbalize what she wants. And contrary to popular opinion, I think Beast was a fine character—flawed and raw and painfully misunderstood—she was relatable and, in the end, quite tragic. These people were fighting for their home and while I don’t condone their behavior, I can understand it. 
> 
> I’m also quite excited for chapter 50. I’ve been working on it for quite some time (since I began Bright Star LOL) and I really can’t wait for you all to read it :)


	50. All my sins redeemed (Ciel Phantomhive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah feckless heart be still a beat,  
> for all around me ivy creeps  
> rose bloom lips they yearn to kiss  
> a taste, gentle lady, one touch of bliss
> 
> though my love be soft, please rest sure  
> there is no fae who I love more  
> then the jade eyed nymph with sun  
> in her hair, fairest lady—I love you dear

_January 19, 1900_

 

Dearest Elizabeth,

There are so many things I wish I could say to you, so many things I yearn to relinquish though each confession would taint your sweetness and purity. As ruinous as my heart may be, I cannot bring myself to ruin you. There is precious little in this world I care for but you, Lizzy, you are a wonder I can’t quite comprehend. I write this to you by candlelight, on a scrap of paper I have ripped from a journal I have never read, using blue ink instead of black because it seems far too relevant these days.

In these late hours, I hide from the world—from Sebastian himself. I can live alone if self-respect and circumstance require me to but you seem to unbalance all my thoughts just the same. You—treasurer of my memories and incandescent flame of my heart; to me, you are everything that exists in a dream, a beautiful forbidden dream. To give into the indulgence of affection, to see your half-smiling lips and know it was I who made you smile…it is temptation that will do me good. Not while I still breathe the foul fumes of London.

But I reminisce still.

I remember you once said that your greatest desire was to love purely and live incidentally—it did not surprise me then and it does not surprise me now. Your heart is so full of love that it often overwhelms the thesis of my cynicism. But here, at long last, is the crux of my despair; I have survived on your love for so long I do not know how to live without it. If I were to show you what lay beneath this veneer of discipline, your admiration for me will be shattered, forever, and there would remain no recognizable image at all.

If I may, I wish to borrow your sincerity and courage for a few moments more. (And do not think I have fallen ill—I write these words with perfect clarity, fully cognizant of what my soul wishes to express.)

I am not so sentimental as to divine anything celestial from your being. We both belong to this earth though I sometimes lie awake at night and wonder if there is not some part of you who belongs amongst the stars. I have witnessed this world’s cruelty and am now assured of the monstrosity of man. The desecration of human kindness is a methodical process, carried out by the bureaucracy of humankind and implemented by the secret demons who dwell within our souls. But before you decry the pessimism of my word, I say this in total contrast to who you are and wonder how someone as good and loving as you can exist in this idle world. There is something angelic in you, Lizzy, something wonderful and alive. Do not think I describe you with disillusioned vitality for I am so very aware of everything you do—whether or I want to or not.

I see the world with hateful distaste and everything in it repulses me—everything but you.

Can you not see there is so much of me that is lost? I am bereft in my own conceited grief, incapable of giving things I do not have. To hear you laughing by the perfumed roses, to see the sunlight in your hair—these are indulgences I hide away, praying they remain safe from the hatred of my past experience. Do you not know? Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own—perhaps more so—and I see in you all the lost beauty of the world. The forgotten Eden.

Elizabeth, would you still smile at me after having read these words? Do you think me insane—deranged? If you do, I cannot blame you. Perhaps, in a final demonstration of my selfishness, this letter will be destroyed. No trace of it shall remain. Even in my descent I cannot bear knowing you might think poorly of me. If this desperate desire to hold onto you is what the poets consider love, then so be it—I will give into their rapture.

You have always been so fond of poetry and I sometimes think it would do me good to read such prose again. But the idleness of youth has long passed me and I feel a thousand years old in mind and spirit. The avian starling of my soul has starved and I am confined to the alien being of my body. To never again live as we might have lived, some years later, in the wonder and affection which I have now lost. I will tell you the only truth I know Lizzy, and that is of the bleak mid-morning when I shall one day march into the valley of death with only a battalion of hell’s legions behind me. You have always been the last dream of my soul and I beg you now to charge forth, steady and sure, into the light where you belong.

Perhaps you will see me as mad—and perhaps that is for the best. I can only hope, my sweet, clever wife, you know how dearly I wish to stay.

 

May you be all my virtues remembered,

 

_Ciel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “to love purely and live incidentally” — modified quote from one of the many love letters Zelda Sayre wrote to her husband, 20th century literary genius, F. Scott Fitzgerald. 
> 
> \- “Every atom of your flesh…” borrowed from the wondrous pen of Charlotte Brontë’s ‘Jane Eyre’. 
> 
> \- “you have always been the last dream of my soul” and “It is a far, far better thing that I do…” — lifted from Charles Dickens’ ‘A Tale of Two Cities’. The latter line is spoken by Sydney Carton before he is to be guillotined in place of Charles Darnay, who is loved by the object of Carton’s affections—Lucie Manette. I see many similarities between Sydney Carton and Ciel, with the primary one focusing on Ciel’s tendency to provide what he can for those he loves best. 
> 
> \- “The avian starling…” — references the poem ‘The Starling’ by Amy Lowell. The starling is an analogy to a caged soul’s desire to break free and become someone or something more so that he or she may experience life at long last. 
> 
> \- “into the valley of death with only a battalion…” — references the poem ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. The poem praises the patriotism and courage shown by 600 soldiers who charged at enemy forces that were stealing their guns. Even though the soldiers realized their commanding officer had made a mistake in the attack, all 600 behaved with perfect valor and bravery. 
> 
> A/N: Without a doubt one of my favorite letters. I’ve always loved the emotional aspect of Ciel and Lizzy’s relationship.


	51. How dear their dwelling place (Alice x Grell Sutcliff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one woman in this whole world who Grell Sutcliff loves. This is she. 
> 
> Personalized letter for PlayWithMeDaddy

Angel eyes! 

I do apologize for the lateness of this letter but work has been absolute murder (without the fun). You see, dearest Ronald was engaged in a most troublesome affair last week when little Janie Michaelson (his current squeeze) nearly slit her own throat after she found Ronnie in bed with both Annie Carlson _and_ Evangeline Johnson! Torrid love affairs—they really do end in the worst of ways, don’t they? I myself have been keeping well, though the decision is partly your fault, you terrible, cherry mouthed darling—you’ve ruined the theater for me! I went to see a production of _Macbeth_ last night and everything was just horribly _bland._ That Lady Macbeth was so pitifully mild I felt obligated to meet her backstage and stain the woman red. 

They really do lack your flair, Alice darling. Of course, those visions do obstruct your acting but I find all your performances wondrous, no matter the occasion, simply because you give so much of yourself. It’s particularly apparent when you begin quoting from _Much Ado About Nothing._ Do you remember four nights ago when you portrayed Count Claudio so _perfectly_ that you nearly frightened a woman half to death when you called her a rotten orange? Oh my dear, you make me miss you so! I love you best when you’re smiling and glittering and praised by all the stars but you mustn’t feel so devastated while you’re on display. Don’t you know? You’re absolutely wonderful. 

For the past few hours I’ve felt rather melancholy and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. It was only when I began looking through those photographs of us together at Coney Island did I realize that I may have grown more attached to you than is right. Never have I met a woman who understood my own heart so accurately—I do hate that, you know. I can’t hide anything from you. Not that I ever would. I’m an honest lady and impropriety is simply my modus operandi but sometimes I think I would like to be with you in a gentler fashion. I would like to wrap you in silk and hold you close when you’re feeling very afraid and can’t stomach humanity for a minute longer. 

Yes, I suppose that’s it. 

Did you know everyone in the office thinks you belong on Drury Lane? That’s how spectacular you are though, I haven’t told them the whole truth simply because I’m rather selfish that way. I like keeping parts of you all to myself. It makes me feel so much better knowing that we can sit in the quiet together and you won’t find me boring. I’ve always disliked banality and normalcy. I don’t want anyone to think of me as… _dull._ I hate silence—it’s just so stifling. I love the cacophony of laughter and talk and gossip—it makes me feel so alive! But sometimes—and only a very rare sometimes—do I feel so tired that I want to close my eyes and rest a while and, in those moments, I want no one to see me. 

No one except you. 

I like you that way, Alice darling. I like how you hold my hand and comfort me without having to say a single word. That’s a very rare skill you know. Not many people have it but I suppose you’re both sides of the same coin. Men are such deceivers, with one foot in the sea and the other on the shore, never constant to one thing. I suppose that’s why I like you better than all the rest—you’re a lady, just like me, and I love you so very much. 

In fact, I love you simply. Without pretense or preamble. I love you, Alice. You allow me to be who I am and when we’re together, neither one of us wishes to alter the other. 

I do love nothing in this world so well as you. 

Meet me for tea sometime? Tomorrow, at the Claridge. (I’ll bring the gin, you bring yourself.) 

 

With fondness that threatens to overwhelm, 

 

_Grell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Drury Lane: the oldest theater in London. Formally called the Theatre Royal, it was built in the early 1660s. 
> 
> \- “Men are such deceivers…” — quoted from William Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. A romantic comedy involving the sharp witticism of one couple who absolutely loath each other (Benedick and Beatrice) and another couple of wholesome and pure devotion (Claudio and Hero). 
> 
> \- “I do love nothing in this world so well as you.” — lifted from Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’. 
> 
> \- Claridge: a five star hotel located on the corner of Brook Street in London. It is a frequent establishment of the nobles and royals of England. Opened 1854. 
> 
> A/N: A very delayed bonus chapter for PlayWithMeDaddy. (I hope you feel better hon!)


	52. Kingdom of heaven (Ciel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The earl of Phantomhive meets an obscure factory girl who teaches him something about humanity.

_27 Ashfield Row_

_West Birmingham_

_England_

 

Dearest madam,

Though pretension bears no weight in comparison to a mother’s grief, allow me to humble myself before you in the aftermath of your loss. Had I been able to, I would have breathed life back into your daughter’s body and used, to the meridian of my resources, every last ounce in an effort to see her safely home. Though this letter may give you no comfort, I should hope—at least—that the corporeal restitution may ease some of your burden.

You may yet wonder what my relation with your daughter was. I myself cannot fully put into words the ascendency of her soft touch. Perhaps it would be best for me to say that she found me in disarray and distress and—though she did not know me, though she ought not to have known me—she showed me more human kindness than any other being I have yet to encounter. She offered to me grace and decorum though I had no need of it. Your daughter did not know who I was; her earnestness was genuine and so was her heart.

She took me into her shared abode and gave me, on a tin plate neatly polished, a flower of oranges and a cup of tea. I knew she must have worked for the Tallis Factory—the lace and veil textiles—for, even after hours and on no paid extension, she remained—nearly all through the night—mending the dresses and shoes of children younger than her—children who spun spools of thread at the same factory. I watched her with mock indifference for what could I say? There was nothing about her that demanded attention; she did not wish for recognition nor did she seem to want for anything other than the smile of those she helped.

At first, I thought her arrogant in believing she could aid those who could not help themselves. I thought her sin was pride—the belief that goodness could be spread through her actions alone. I admit, as I shall always endeavor to do, that I was blunt and cold towards your daughter—perhaps not callous but I behaved with all the frigid dignity of a nobleman befitting my station. She apologized profusely every time I made a barb; she smiled so sweetly when I sneered and scorned. At last, when I thought I would go mad, she said—very softly—if I wished, I could take the bed and she, the floor.

The detail is nominal at best and in my anger (for I _could not_ understand her) I demanded to know what she expected. She looked at me, eyes wide with virtue and hurt, and apologized if she had offended me with her humility. Crazed as I was, she beckoned me to sit and poured me more tea—a luxury that she did not dare spend on herself. She gave and she gave—and when at long last my sanity thinned, I heard her sing.

She had, madam, a voice as pure and untainted as the white calla lily. Like the sweetest church bell ringing on a May morning—like honey warmed under the Roman sun. She sang of lovely maids and kind princes; of sprites and faes and clever kings. Her trills were airy sweet and when I closed my eyes, I could almost see the vast expanse of heaven.

I am not a religious man, madam, and I will never bring myself to submit to anyone other than my own decree. Yet in those few moments, I thought to myself— _this is goodness spent._ Allow me to write a few lines more as, right now, I believe in the myth of verse. I feel as though Hamilton could not have written better then when he wrote:

_Let reason silence nature’s strife,_

_And weep Maria’s fate no more;_

_She’s safe from all the storm’s of life,_

_And wafted to a peaceful shore._

May you find comfort in knowing that she had in her all the benevolence and mercy of a woman exalted and I, humbled by her soul, bid you good tidings from this sorrow.

 

With respectful courtesy,

 

Earl Phantomhive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Let reason silence nature’s strife…” part of the poem Alexander Hamilton wrote for his friend Elias Boudinot after the passing of his daughter. Hamilton writes the poem in a mother’s voice and inscribes in these few stanzas all the grief, longing, and hope that comes with maternal love. (I just really love Hamilton’s writings, alright?!) 
> 
> \- Ciel doesn’t talk about heaven so for him to even include this brief stanza emphasizes the great impact this one factory girl had on him.


	53. The acquisition of desire (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He fought for her - and still, she left him.

October 4, 1943

 

_Draga mea,_

It has been many years since I last laid eyes upon you but I must confess, your image remains untarnished. Like the evening constellation, you seem to be burned into the aether of my mind; the motions of the planets are helpless against your fatal consistency and infinite melancholy. I suppose I ought not to recollect you in any way but such dignity would be too a great a gift—even for you. I have spared your soul from eternal damnation and for that, you shall always be in my debt. I do not take kindly to your absence, though it has been a century. A century of waiting and wanting and wondering if the moon’s nebulous shadow will once again take shape and breathe life into your stardust bones and glass-doll smile. 

The slightly feline outline of your cheekbone, the slenderness of your downy limbs, the elegance of your gait and walk—you were everything man despised about women though they fell into your palm still, pawns who had surrendered in willing admiration of your bruising, violet beauty. I admired you so dearly from the veiled sphere of Charon's barge, observing your lithe flirtations with thinly suppressed amusement. You—a pink rose petal carried by the caress of spring—a petite ballerina of Russian origin who playacted with the French and drank as well as any German. 

The thorough engagement of your charm with the pestilence of my character buoyed high up the frail silver intimacy of my tar-black soul and forced from it something tenderer and truer than all I had ever known. Though your vices were many, I found their indulgent nature a fine play of action and willingly suppressed the faults of such whimsy from my mind. I exhausted all doubt until nothing remained but abstract thought. I took to your fae-like eroticism with contemptuous glee for you were so like the great courtesans of centuries past. How you could have compiled together all the letters of your lovers and published a novel of the most delightful and immoral kind—my very own Madame de Pompadour. You attached yourself to the axis of my attention and seized my affection with such immoderation it bordered, as it does now, on immorality. 

Yet how quickly your love turned and how ruinously did your reputation spread; first from Bucharest and then, the whole of Romania. With your father’s shame burdening your shoulders you wed a man of ill repute and bore for him no children and by your 23rd year, you slit your throat with a silver blade encrusted with vermillion rubies. I fought for your soul with the Reapers who tried to take you from me because you are, as the singers will one day sing, mine. There is nothing Apollonian about your touch and I have no wish to be reclaimed by the white seraphs of heaven, not while you remain in eternal stasis, despising me for everything I have done on your behalf. 

And perhaps your wicked temperament would soothe only black fire but I should amuse both myself and your gatekeepers if I were to confess that I think of you still. I think of you often. 

Though there can be no true delight in the poisoned meringue of life, I endeavor to see you alive once more—if only for the singular enjoyment of myself. You wretched, pitiful girl—must I think of you as my dear still? 

But perhaps I shall—and very soon. 

Just as death waits for no one, life must also be taken. Consume it all and stand moonlit against the dark ocean tide; you may yet release me from this hellish drudgery of boredom and finite peace. 

 

_Bălaur_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Draga mea” — Romanian for ‘my dear’. 
> 
> \- “The slightly feline outline…” — adapted from Vladimir Nabokov’s ‘Lolita’. 
> 
> \- “I have exhausted all doubt…” — modified quote from author/writer Honore de Balzac. 
> 
> \- “How you could have compiled all the letters of your lovers…” — references the famous Venetian courtesan Veronica Franco (1546 - 1591). She amassed great wealth and status with her long and endless string of suitors and lovers; in 1580 Veronica published ‘Familiar Letters’ which was a compilation of fifty letters written by Veronica to her various lovers, including King Henry III of France and the Venetian painter Jacopo Tintoretto. However, she lost most of her fortune that same year when she was persecuted by the Roman Inquisition on grounds of witchcraft and immorality. She died in 1591 in utter poverty. 
> 
> \- Madame de Pompadour: the fatalistically powerful mistress of King Louis XV of France who hung onto royal favor even after she and the king ceased being lovers in 1750. Madame de Pompadour was hated almost as much as she was revered (she encouraged Louis XV to enter into the Seven Years’ War which all but bankrupted France but, at the same time, was patron to great artists and writers such as François Boucher and Voltaire respectively). She died at age 42. 
> 
> \- Bălaur: Romanian word for ‘dragon’ or ‘monster’. 
> 
> A/N: Please accept this humble offering and forgive me for my lack of updates ^-^ (I’m fairly sure I wrote this when I was going through my obsessive Nabokov phase so there’s a *ton* of Lolita references in here. But I somehow infused Edie Sedgwick in as I was editing—hence the 1943 date—so I don’t know what this is supposed to be LOL)


	54. Waltz no. 2 (Undertaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The condition of one's heart is a curious thing.

Dearest girl, 

I so wish I could love you. Then things would be so very simple. 

You would one day perish and some years later, death might also come for me. But love is very _tedious,_ I cannot say I love you because love is so very _common_ and you are, I think, above everything love proclaims. Should you keep me in your heart like a trellised rose vine, I would be most grateful. It is passing odd—a passing fancy—that I dream of you sometimes when I sleep. I see your expression, so poignant and aware; so tenderly disposed towards this cruel world and everything it does not say. Perhaps your consciousness is your greatest treasure but it is also the thing that causes you to mar yourself with scars so out of place on your pale, perfect skin. 

Do you ever tire of living? 

Sometimes I do. I have lived for so _long_ and for so many centuries that time is now a mellifluous tune, in harmony with the passing seasons that seem to cycle this earth in an endless succession. From the crest of dawn to the trough of dusk, I see everything and feel nothing except the faint curiosity of _when will it all end?_

You are so young and so beautiful—so enamored with death. Would you like for him to creep into your room late at night, take you by the waist and kiss you still? Oh, little girl!—but you are not so little anymore. 

My dear, I so wish I could love you. 

I have lost myself before when I still breathed air—when I could expire as the seasons do. Now I have lost myself again. The first time I could claim misfortune, now I must settle for carelessness. (There, do you see what you do to me? How very awful it is to have you in my heart. Why don’t you leave me? I would find it a great deal easier to breathe afterwards—but wait! I have no need for air. Drat. 

I suppose you will always have to love me then.) 

There, now I have gifted you with immortality and you must always remain by my side and weather earth’s rotations around the sun. (I find it peculiar that we must curtsey about that great yellow orb. You are a great deal prettier.) 

Oh, you exquisite little tart. I wish there was something I could say besides _love_ but as I dislike the scale of the emotional spectrum, shall I say I _adore_ you? I _worship_ you? I _long_ for you? 

I so wish I could love you. 

Perhaps then I might find it easier to say goodbye. 

 

Yours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Title comes from Dmitri Shostakovich's waltz of the same name. 
> 
> \- “The first time I could claim misfortune; now I must settle for carelessness.” — modified quote from Oscar Wilde’s play, ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’. (“To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lost both looks like carelessness.”) 
> 
> \- “Oh, you exquisite little tart.” — quote from Sarah Waters’ 1998 novel, ‘Tipping the Velvet’. 
> 
> A/N: Bright Star will be continuing :)


	55. Sweet rose of virtue (Ev Llinas x Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly two centuries since Sebastian's last seen a witch - particularly as one as pretty as this. 
> 
> Personalized letter for haywoodyablowme

Sweet rose of virtue,

How long it has been! And how intemperate your mind, casting me aside in favor of goodness spent and kindness worn. I admit, I felt nothing but amusement when I first saw you—crouched down so you could meet the eyes of those haggard orphans near—offering them geraniums and daisies kissed by the pages of your ancient grimoire dear. Is it something in the water? An American aesthetic? To be so generous towards those you do not know, those you will never know? Charleston held little amusement for me, with their gaudy saloons and boastful music—the whole populace mad with antebellum mansions of the most garish design, painted in hues of teal, red, or yellow.

The whole city was doused in kerosene and set afire with whisky, jazz, and sheer audacity. (And there you were, reveling within the flames, dashing between exuberance and shy unease—a fragile rose of the reddest plum.) And everywhere, coloring the wingspan of heaven, there lay a church and priest who, I do believe, sought to purify the unevenness of my sable soul. Alas, their words were slow and I, having attuned myself to my master’s hasty demands, departed far too quickly for their leisurely sermons. 

Yet while you may never again be welcome in England (colliding with her majesty’s servant is a capital crime indeed), I have always found the French countryside a far more beautiful attraction. There, you will be free to experience the salient ease of Manosque, with their provincial shops and cobblestone streets—I must ask, however, that you restrain from exercising the hand of piety upon me. How charming it was, to discover that you knew of the treacherous divide between humanity and despotism—how you wielded it with imperceptible grace.

It has been many centuries since I last encountered a sorceress of a sympathetic nature. 

Clement and bountiful, you seem to hold no resentment for the town which plagued your ancestry with such ferocity. You seem to dance everywhere you go, even when no music is played. I have never seen a nymph half so lovely, with eyes so large, dark, and expressive; your skin warmed by the unfaltering golden sun while the short curls of your hair made you an irresistible anomaly amongst the southern belles of Charleston and Beaufort. Have you been touched by the merry mischief of Oberon? Made lovingly eccentric by the pale column of moonlight which seems to shine just for you?

You are a vaudeville, are you not? A one-woman show of such splendid, unusual theatrics that I cannot help but be drawn into your orbit, half-wondering if I, too, am falling mad. I have never been particularly careful with those of magical grace, preferring to avoid the impish spring that has now become your calling card.

Weave the moonlight into your hair so that, at night, you may seem more approachable to a fiend such as I. Stand on the highest pavement of the rounded stair, clutching a flower to your chest, and wait for me there.

I should very much like to amuse myself a little longer—if, of course, you would permit it.

 

With insatiable emotion,

_S. Michaelis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Geraniums: meaning comfort. 
> 
> \- Daisies: meaning innocence. 
> 
> \- Grimoire: an ancient textbook of magic. 
> 
> \- Manosque: a small, charming town located in Provence. Known for its bucolic landscapes (fields of poppies and acres of bright yellow sunflowers), Manosque has been hailed as “nature’s haven” in France. (Look at Seb, trying to score brownie points with you XD)
> 
> \- Oberon: the fairy king of Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. He was the one who ordered Puck to rouse some mischief in an attempt to anger his estranged queen, Titania. 
> 
> \- “Weave the moonlight…” & “Stand on the highest pavement…” — references T.S. Eliot’s poem ‘La Figlia Che Piange’. (“Stand on the pavement of the highest stair/ Lean on a garden urn/ Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.) 
> 
> A/N: Ahhhh, haywoodyablowme—so sorry for the lateness of this letter!


	56. To sing the sun to flight (Joanne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summer garden party. A beautiful girl. A bashful Joanne who falls head over heels in love.

Dearest Miss (Y/N) (L/N),

I pray you forgive me for the abruptness of this introduction but I have found myself landlocked on a desert isle, with no bird of paradise to sing so sweetly and no nectar blossoms scenting the honey trees. Would it be too much for me to say that with one glance of your fair face, I felt spring roses blooming in my chest? You are every star divine, formed into a perfect constellation for everyone to behold but, with your loving permission, I should like to understand you as best as my mind is capable of understanding.

I remember your loveliness well, standing beneath the peach tree, fragrant white-pink blossoms falling about you while all the guests attended to croquet and chatter. Oh if I could only tell you how adoringly I gazed upon you! I stood there, watching in silent, awed contemplation and knowing, in that very moment, I never wanted to see anyone’s face but yours. Yet when you approached me—softly, sweetly—I found myself unable to speak or think and—

I do believe I made myself look a right fool in your eyes. I rarely wish to break the silence for it is always so tranquil—so smooth and serene. But for you, my caged heart is restless and I am at a loss for words.

I wish to assure you of my honest love and beg you to think upon me with favor.

There has been no other person—not in this empire here or foreign isles elsewhere—that has been able to captivate me as you have. I am nothing great and possess little in the way of grandeur, save a title and manor that I wish to bury away. You deserve all the colors of the dawn, woven into a palace belonging to the crystal sky.

Am I too far gone for you to repulse my advances with polite dignity? I have always tried to keep to myself but I am so afraid that you will one day meet another suitor of greater means and better mettle and that you shall leave me forever. Oh, you are more beautiful than necessary and kinder than the gentlest ivory dove. Shall I put in writing all your virtues? But then, I fear, I would need all the light of heaven and all the gifts of Gaia to be able to do you a modicum of justice. 

I hesitate to tell you this but my shaking hand and erratic pulse cannot help it—I am so in love with you that I can think of no one else. 

Tell me that I may be able to come to you and say it. And, if I might ask for a little more, might I receive a token of your love as well?

I confess all this under a quiet willow tree, beside the clear stream of cool, rushing water. And, if I were to write a thousand pages more, it would be an endless confession of _love_ and _adoration_ and unfeasible desire. I wish to make you as happy as you have made me, and, though this challenge may be impossible to fulfill, I shall endeavor to make it a reality.

You deserve the world and all the heavens—but, if you should love me a little, I will give you everything I possess with a heart as willing and tender as Romeo had for his dear Juliet.

 

Ever your most affectionate,

 

_Joanne_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Oh, you are more beautiful than necessary…” borrowed line from Palestinian poet Walid Khazindar’s ‘Distant Light’. 
> 
> A/N: Surprise! It’s sweet, darling Joanne asking you to love him because he’ll most certainly be willing to die for you ^-^ this dear pumpkin deserves more love! 
> 
> (Btw, the Loki letter is coming. IT’S COMING. Thank you for your patience!)


	57. Interlude: Loki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While exiled on earth, Loki meets, interacts, and falls for a beautiful - albeit spoiled - human girl and decides that she must be Titania reborn.

(Y/N),

If you would only look out your trellised window, the one with the rambling rose vine you think so romantic, you will find a jet plane I crafted only yesterday for the sole purpose of your amusement. It can seat as many people as you wish (but because you are mine, I hope you will fly it alone until I am able to visit you); and, as per your request, I have forced the intricacies of lore and gold to thread each seat with the crest of the rose, the flower you love best.

You spoiled little thing—I don’t know why I indulge your whims and fancies so ardently, why I consider your mirth and contentment my highest priority…do you suppose it is because I am too infatuated with your smile? How you seem to bring about Avalon and all her glory when you turn towards me, so incredibly joyous over some small trinket I have given you, and delight in my company even though I have remained the same?

I will never oblige myself to gratitude, for I despised every minute of my banishment, but earth—pitiful sphere that it is—holds a charm more precious than all the glory of the stars. You sat near the bank where the wild thyme grows, sunlight in your hair and skin soft with the radiance of the promised dawn; the water was cool and pale blue as it rushed close by, and you leaned to pluck the nodding violets near, smile so sweet that I had thought myself in the presence of some fragrant floral seraph. I will confess that I pay no heed to the grand mystics of yonder and mischief, terrible as it is, runs through my veins.

I had thought you a mirage—a flicker of hope inflicted on me by a vengeful father—until you spied me there, a wicker basket of strawberries by your feet as you begged me to come closer. And what did you say when I did appear? Perhaps I was mad to speak to you and madder still when I heard your desperate, bell-curved cry, “oh please sir, won’t you help me here? I wish to retrieve that rose on the other side of the bank but I find myself a terrible swimmer. Will you not help me please?” 

You spoke with all the sweetness of one who has never been denied.

And perhaps it was because you reminded me of something beautiful that I chose to come to your aid. Yet if there is sympathy in choice, you afforded me none. To take with impunity has always been the nature of man and you—lovely, fragile you—wielded it with lavender subservience, transforming servility into your scepter and rod. Did you think you would make a fine, gilded queen? I have always envisioned myself a testament to greater things, above the echelon of the sky. So, for you, empress perhaps. 

Now, your pride must be monstrous and your insolent vanity matching that of Brunhild with all her dignity. But—take note—I do not love you yet. I do not think I will ever whisper those superfluous words, if only to see your cherry ripe mouth pout with the sort of temper that has endeared you to me. You beautiful, insignificant chit—what am I to do with you? You have captivated all my facilities and captured the whole of my being towards you.

Find some time in between your diamonds and soirees to write me well—lest I decide make you mine for eternity. 

 

Affectionately,

_Loki_

 

(Would you care for another incentive?: When I look upon you, I find myself past the wit of man and all my eloquence fled. If I could keep you with me, always, I should be content—but, the fairest dew fades the quickest and your lovely breath perfumes so sweetly, sweeter than all the rest. Would you ever consent to transcend death? I should make it a lovely party game, for you—and only you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “You sat near the bank where the wild thyme grows…” — references Shakespeare’s 'A Midsummer Night’s Dream'. This is the scene where the fairy queen, Titania, is introduced. 
> 
> \- “You have captivated all my facilities…” — lifted line from one of the many love letters Napoleon wrote to his first wife, Joséphine. (This one is dated April 3, 1796, when Napoleon was on his Italian campaign.) 
> 
> A/N: Inspired by the letters of Napoleon Bonaparte to his first wife, Joséphine de Beauharnais.


	58. The pretty follies that themselves commit (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come back to me. Even as a shadow, even as a dream. (Sebastian learns that not all things are so easy to forget.) 
> 
> 1714, France.

_January 4, 1714_

 

Come back.

Even as a shadow. Even as a dream. You have been gone far too long and I confess, with some strange fascination, _I ache for you._

This longing is insignificant beneath the cosmos; underneath an ever changing tide of midnight eve. We were but two strangers who had come into contact with one another and _my_ —you were determined, even then, to burrow yourself within my heart so that later, I would think of nothing but you.

Your eyes were the color of a faded sky and your hair so pale I thought it spun from the silver moonlight. To have danced with you through the marbled halls of Versailles, to have heard ringing laughter escape your mouth while your arctic eyes pierced into mine—you possessed no hint of reticence, only a bold, vivacious charm so different from the timidity of your sisters.

You adored me so completely—without reservation or question and I, in all my arrogance, never thought to question it.

I promised you a lunar sunrise and the impossible constancy of the fickle stars. You took my promise and held it like stardust in your hands—dearest girl, did you not believe me? For though my tongue be serpentine and my covenants weak, I would not have betrayed you for all the vice and virtue of this world. Not in that moment, not when you appeared to me as you did.

Have you forgotten the lectures of your governess? _And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, and win us with honest trifles._

 __It seems, then, that I must burden you with my affection—for there is no help to be received. I cannot change the course of my desire and indeed, have often fallen prey to its malicious need. An overwhelming course of sin that steals control and sheaths me with primeval ordinance.

I could have taken you without thought or care—anything to brand you as my own. I could have stripped the sky of color and poured into you the brightness of the evening star.

Death, it seems, does not discriminate, between the sinners and the saints. It took life from your rosebud mouth and I only watched as you accepted Charon as an old friend— _for you knew._ Part of me laughs—rejoices—in the cruelty you have bestowed upon me; you knew your fate and denied me still. The other half is as pitiful as can be transcribed; I am filled with a sense of wretchedness, bound with stone and chain. I am drowning, carried by the ocean tides; I have been overcome by a paralysis of reason and write this in a daze, half aware of my words but not cognizant of what I am trying to say. To express.

Shall I wake from this Spartan trial to find you standing before me, dressed all in silver? Or is this the companionless grief of one who was never meant to feel? What torture have you impressed on me…what absence is this? I am unable to contrive your eternal damnation and fall from grace, for I still long to dress you in shades of Proserpina and place a pomegranate in your hand, to bind you to me enterally. To make you mine and force your obedience, always.

And yet, I shall stay my hand.

I will stay my hand and you, with your cleverness of mind, should know how wretchedly I wish otherwise. 

 

Treasure it well, 

_Sebastian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “…through the halls of Versailles” — this is set in France in the early 18th century during the Sun King’s (Louis XIV) last few years as monarch. 
> 
> \- “Death, it seems, does not discriminate…” — referencing Aaron Burr’s ‘Wait For It’ solo from Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Broadway musical, ‘Hamilton’. 
> 
> \- "And oftentimes, to win us to our harm..." — spoken by Banquo in Shakespeare's 'Macbeth'. 
> 
> \- Charon: in Greek mythology, Charon was the ferryman of Hades who carried the souls of the newly deceased across the river Styx. 
> 
> \- Proserpina: the Roman name for Persephone. 
> 
> A/N: Reviews are love, dearies :)


	59. The Devil's Six (Happy Valentine's!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine’s Day chapter: short letter excerpts from the Devil’s Six (Sebastian, Ciel, Undertaker, Vincent Phantomhive, Charles Grey, and Grell Sutcliff)

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

— Lord Byron

 

* * *

 

(Sebastian)

Sketch yourself into me so that I might not forget our night of passion, my mouth on your breasts, your lips kissing my cock—how polite and dignified you are, and how your body moved in rhythm with mine, until your pale thighs bruised and your flushed skin became littered with my markings. Shall I forget how you fell between my knees, mouth suckling and lips swollen as you watched me become undone. How it was I who clawed and called for _your_ name and how your tongue could me make me _shudder_ —did it feel good then, love, when I forced you over, slamming your naked, warm body against the chamber room wall?

How wet and warm you were, your breath trembling as I filled you, sating that ache between your thighs, your breasts pressed against the wall, your moans muffled by the velvet wallpaper.

Come and come and _come._

I have never longed for the comfort of a woman’s touch until your rose tipped fingers slipped into my mouth. I could taste my essence on your skin intermingled with the sweetness of your cum. A bittersweet poison if there ever was one.

Say hello to our dear little one for me—let her remember me through your eyes, when I was free, bound to no man or hell, and you were mine; as we stood in the rose garden and you allowed me to kiss your hand and everything seemed to fade, first from the edges and then further in, until only the radiance of your smile remained.

Until nothing stood but we two.

Would I whisper _I love you_ if I could. Would you be mine if heaven were willing.

A thousand Arabian nights I would hold you hostage, until there is no number left to encapsulate the days that remain.

You once wished for something spectacular and I do not know if this is what you desired. But, would you not think (indulge me, please, it is all I ask of you) that a demon who has learned to love as something worthy of that phrase? 

With you, (Y/N), I dare to hope.

 

— _Michaelis_

 

* * *

(Undertaker)

They say he was bold (Y/N), the first man who ate an oyster.

I say he was unimaginative—and terribly, _wickedly_ dull.

Why dine on a single oyster when one can sup on the heated cider from between your thighs? (And _oh,_ is that a _blush_ I see? Come now—there’s no need to be shy! When one has vocalized their desired speed, skirts bunched at the hips, and curls splayed across the satin lining of my specially made coffin… _well,_ I believe the time for modesty has long since passed, wouldn’t you agree?) 

But I do so love your blushes. I collect them, you know, moments of feeling—hoarding them away because corpses, beautiful as they are, can never achieve that well-loved hue, the same hue that appears with such infrequency on your cheeks.

Ma cher, you are so _bold._ And if you grow bolder still then I shall have to steal you away—in a hearse, perhaps—because your boldness is a virtue the world has forgotten how to worship. 

Would you run away with me, (Y/N)? Into the far flung mountains of the Black Forest, through the icy swift waters of the Yenisei River? Across fields of wheat and oceans of time, never aging—never changing? I have always adored my corpses—I have always loved the dead—but you, _you_ (Y/N) are full of life. A life I must hold onto.

How would you like to be reborn, (Y/N)? Reborn through death so that we might live through every century, in every nation, for so long as time shall stand?

(And you know where to find me, don’t you lovey? Prick your finger, smear the color on your lips—I do so love your rose bloom mouth.)

x

 

* * *

(Ciel)

No wise man ever wished to be younger and no philosopher ever desired a return to youth. I, too, have always been a man of convention—of dignity, duty, and propriety. I have never questioned the orders of my queen simply because the hierarchy we reside in benefit noblemen of my position. As the old adage goes, with age comes wisdom and with wisdom comes power.

But for you, my (Y/N), with your soft words and kind smiles, I wish to remain in stasis, trapped in this one moment of fleeting, misplaced serenity. We have stolen from the Roman goddess and ransomed her peace as our own. I have held you in the dying twilight, with the world soaked in orange fire, and I have kissed your open mouth under a moonless midnight eve. We have laid there, staring at the stars and constellations until dewdrops stained our clothes and pink sunlight bloomed over the horizon.

My lavender darling—my _only_ darling. How dear I hold you now, etching your image into my heart, praying (against my rational mind) that you might know—without a shadow of doubt—that all I have told you, every whisper, every phrase, ever murmur, came from the broken remains of my heart. As a child, I locked away a most precious truth in the depths of my tired and fatigued heart; and, as the years passed, I could scarcely remember what that truth was.

But then I met you; and my world—once black as burnt ash—began to saturate with color.

You became my lavender dawn. You have coerced my reluctant mind into remembering. You have brought my wretched heart out from hiding. You have returned to me a truth I had once forgotten. It is with this that I pledge to you now—

My love shall, and always will, be _yours._

 

In greatest affection and strictest confidence,

_Ciel_

 

* * *

(Vincent)

Let us be brave!—let us be bold and daring and many kinds of wonderful; let us be as stubborn as my German hound (and twice as fierce) for we shall need all the courage of lions. It has been a fortnight since I asked you to elope with me and I am still perpetually delighted by the idea of us marrying in a simple rosewood cottage—roses blooming and ivy creeping—while a passing clergyman marries us so we may fall into each other again and again and again. And, come morning light, you shall be my countess. You must know I count down the hours until I may be allowed to shower you with jewels and silks and gowns—how splendid you’ll look, dressed in gold and lace, and how lovely you’ll be when I undress you in the dead of night, the moonlight bathing you in Artemis’s colour.

Ah, I am a proud Englishman but for you I shall endeavor to be as naughty and provocative as any Frenchman or gypsy.

Are you not glad that I am to be your husband? Think of all the freedom you shall soon have—you would only need to wear your corset a few hours a day before it is discarded to the other side of the room. Your petticoats and chemise might also be disregarded as well. In fact, would you not think it better to simply walk about in nothing but a string of pearls and French silk stockings? We Phantomhive’s are, by nature, very fond of Paris.

(And macarons. Such a delightful confection of sweetness—or perhaps that was simply the taste of your quim as you came into my mouth. I can’t seem to recall—it was a terribly busy night after all.)

 

With fondest regards and questionable patience,

_the queen’s watchdog_

 

* * *

(Charles Grey) 

If you think your beauty and words and fire will make me fall in love with you, _you’re wrong._ There is nothing I want—not a single damn thing. Don’t think yourself unique, Lady (Y/N), for I laugh at many things. It is not because your quick wit impressed me (though I concede you are clever) and it was not because your fine phrases were of a scholarly sort (even if I, too, admire the great Samuel Butler). No, I have not come to enjoy your presence—in fact, I could very much do without it.

But it is exceptionally difficult to free myself of you. How very inconvenient that you should be the duchess the queen so favors; I suppose it is necessary that we see each other in court. And, since I am amongst her majesty’s confidantes, it would be prudent if you and I were to converse freely while we are together—if only for the sake of her majesty, who should very much like to see us together. She has not expressed this wish verbally (or even subtly) but I believe she is counting on me to recognize the meaning behind her nonexistent actions because it would be best if you and I were together.

Because you are one of the queen’s favorites and I am her private secretary.

Thus, it is with reasonable reluctance that I invite you to dine at Ivoryhill (my family’s ancestral estate) with me. The event will be a singular one, involving only you and I. Alone. Because it is very necessary that we understand each other for the sake of her majesty. (Though you seem to understand me without trying.)

 

Cordially (and perhaps a touch affectionately—though I only write this because it would not appear proper otherwise),

_Charles Grey_

 

* * *

(Grell Sutcliff) 

Oh darling, darling, _darling!_ I am absolutely _famished!_ I’ve gone two entire days without seeing your pretty little face and—don’t you know how very, _very_ displeased this makes me? Not even dear Will can bring me any joy, for every time I glance at him I find myself thinking of you, sweetling, with all your fancy ideas and unchangeable exhilaration. We ought to abandon life jackets and jump overboard—see if we can boil the ocean! I am fire and you are blood and _darling,_ our passion could melt the Arctic! (Or whatever that new fangled landmass is called.)

I am so dreadfully lonesome without you. Even my bones are trembling…my limbs, my soul—my very _atoms_ and _marrow_ calling your name! Oh _cara mia_ I want to see you dance and sing! Never have I heard a voice so divine, never have I seen a dance so sensual! How your hips sway and your feet move, how your wrists flick and your torso turns! Every move in tune with the foreign music of Spain—simply you dance takes me to the hot streets of Barcelona, where everything is gold and sunbaked, where the cobblestone streets are full of spice and the air smells of cinnamon.

Dance, my love— _dance!_ Don red silk slippers and dance, dance _dance_ until your tender flesh splits open and blood seeps through. Dance and sway—every twist and turn _perfection_ —dance, _cara mia,_ and leave a trail of passion, love, and beauty behind.

Till next we meet (let it not be long!) and with all my love,

 

 _Grell_ ♡ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “They say he was bold (Y/N), the first man who ate an oyster.” & “No wise man ever wished to be younger…” — Come from the pen of Irish satirist Jonathan Swift. 
> 
> \- I’m not sure if you could tell but Grey was just denying his feelings for you to high heaven XD (also: Samuel Butler was a 17th century poet and satirist, famous for his pro-Royalist poem ‘Hudibras’.) 
> 
> \- Cara mia: Italian for “my darling” 
> 
> A/N: Forgive me please for my lack of updates! I swear I haven't forgotten about this fic and I promise I'll try to update more frequently! ♡
> 
> In any case, please enjoy these little valentines from the Devil's Six!


	60. Touch with thy lips, feel with thine soul (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your absence has caused a certain butler to become quite poetic.

How I long to kiss your pomegranate mouth, to taste your ripe, succulent sweetness—to cut into you with ivory teeth and hungry touches.

My dear, it’s been too long.

A dream ago, perhaps, when we last kissed and felt and loved; when I last tasted the nectar of your flesh and heard the thrum of your soul, a bell beat rhythm of pulse and fluttering, soft sighs. I think of you so often, sprawled out as you are on rumpled silk sheets with an onyx night behind us.

You make the whirling world still.

Do you know how precious you are, sweetling? How it is to look on your fair face and think nothing of the hunger raging within me? So why is it my darling, you seem to run from me everywhere you go? From strawberry fields to the rose garden, you try to escape my grasp and, I wonder, if you know the hurt I feel. Sometimes I desire to make you feel what I do—this overwhelming tidal wave of irrepressible emotion. It’s been so long since I last felt anything akin to this and you…

Softer than rainfall at twilight, dewy eyed and rosy mouthed…do you expect me to leave you be? To not claim you as my own? I still desire the feel of your trembling thighs pressed against my palm. I am anguished while you are away, dancing with those gilded fools, associating with men of such low standing.

Let me make you mine.

_Mine, mine—infinitely mine._

Do you know how I long for you?

 

_Sebastian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Softer than rainfall at twilight…” — references Sappho’s “One Hundred Lyrics” 
> 
> A/N: I know this is short (and it’s Sebastian. Again. I’m sorry!) but I’m trying to get into the groove of Black Butler again before I start Ash’s letter ^^ thank you all for your patience and continued support! Much love ♡ Peary


	61. The milk of human kindness (Ash Landers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have grown up pure within the walls of the Abbaye-aux-Bois. So pure, in fact, that you've attracted the attentions of one lavender eyed angel. 
> 
> For EpodynoThanato.

(Y/N),

Let it be know that I cannot help the tender love I feel. That it is impossible to maintain my distance any longer. You have my endless devotion, my eternal pledge of faithfulness, of everlasting love and pure-sweet adoration. Amongst these humans you walk, as untainted as the morning dew…my fragile butterfly, do not leave this home of yours. The abbey is _our_ home, for wherever you go, I will follow. Do not leave me here, so desolate and broken—do not be so cruel to me, dear heart, do not abandon me so. Love begets love—and you already have mine.

Do not seek to forsake it.

What could the outside world offer you but filth and indecency? Do you truly wish to expose yourself to the callous brutality of man? No, my love— _no._ You are too pure, too good. You are the paradise of my soul, an oasis of calm that I retreat to when the barren desert of humankind stirs my anger and bitter frustration. I have been disappointed by all those I’ve encountered—except you, _never_ you. You have retained the white light of childhood—the eternal spring of possibility. Do not let the world taint and ruin you, do not become like Persephone who allowed herself to be corrupt. Remain this way, my dear sweet Kore, remain as you are my goddess of spring.

My eternal covenant.

But sometimes, my sweet, you tempt me to agitation—to blasphemy and slander and vile hatred. I look at you from the celestial heavens, I see how you undress and stand by the bathtub’s edge. The hot steam blurs your figure but I can still see your rosy pale skin, can almost taste the silky softness of your body— _let me worship you._ Let me desire you. For one night, let us be together.

It is sin to say this—it is _unfathomable_ I should ever think this but…if I could kiss you but once—give you an angel’s kiss—you would be even purer than you are now. Yes, that is it. When I touch you, hands tracing the lush curves of your body, _you will be made pure._ You are already so good and innocent that my touch would be the final elixir—you would burn away your earthly imperfections and be made a celestial star to be kept under my wing. I will shield you from the cosmic forces that dare try to part us and you will forever be by my side. My dearest darling—the milk of human kindness— _you are so close to perfection._

I know it. How could I not?

I would never desire anything (or anyone) less than perfect.

Remain this way. Remain eternal and pure and wonderfully mine. Rebuke your father, deny your mother, forsake your brother—never leave the walls of this convent for _you are_ ** _mine._** Do not force my wrath upon you when all I truly wish—all I genuinely desire—is to worship your body and unchanged soul. Between the layers of velvet dusk and morning dawn, we shall run away to a fairy’s grotto and I will lay you down, soft and sweet. Open your butterfly wings and _let me in._ Give yourself to me and do not fret, dear heart, for things are so much sweeter when they’re lost.

And remember this: all I think of, all I know, is that _I love you._ Cite this, my darling, as the scripture of your heart—and never lose sight of my devotion.

 

Eternally and ever yours,

_Ash_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “the milk of human kindness” — comes from Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ 
> 
> A/N: Thanks for the request EpodynoThanato! Everybody, give it up for the passive-aggressive Ash Landers!
> 
> (I am slowly but surely getting through the requests! Drocell letter coming up next!)


	62. Mirror for princes (Holly Lovejoy x Ciel Phantomhive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would rather live in the darkest chasms of insanity and have you with me than exist, without you, in the world around me.

I can’t possibly remember every last detail of you—not _you,_ with your flowing charm and complexity of being. But, in truth, I never expected I would have to.

You once accused me of cruelty, eyes alight with fury and passion and a desire to _understand._ Yet I stood before you, haughty as ever, and could not bear to acknowledge the truth that has now become my shame. I would now have you know that some part of me shall, and always will, belong to _you._ For your ferocity and undeterred fervor; your passion for living and thinking and _being._

But what is the use in any of this if you are not _here,_ by my side, listening to the words that now seem to escape my lips without provocation? Out of all those who I sought to leave behind, you were the one who protested more fiercely than all at the rest. Why did you care for me, I would wonder late at night, when I had done nothing but inspire ire and conflict in you? When your words burned through my repose, when you forced me to engage in conversation that breathed life back into my body; the two of us, fire and fury in your sitting room, speaking with such profound conviction that I had forgotten what I once promised to remember.

That I would be like ice, cold and unyielding, but—what a foolish child I was.

What ice, I wonder, can remain so against the heat of a roaring fire?

And yet it seems comical to me that my feelings should be confessed, at long last, when you have taken another bridegroom. The lucidity of memory is all that remains; it is what I hold onto when the nights have become unbearable and the wicked truth of what I tried so desperately to forget comes crashing to the forefront of my thoughts—a collision of man-made madness that has now become my raison d’être. I would rather live in the darkest chasms of insanity and have you with me than exist, without you, in the world around me.

Death stole the fire from your body—the ardor from your eyes—but has left me with the distinct portrait of your face, forever etched in my mind.

_I am sorry._

The expression of poets would only be appropriate here—saccharine lies and the lyricism of your beating heart.

But I do not remember what it was like to have your body pressed against mine (only that my fears quieted, ever so slightly, and your hands burned the promise of safety into my skin). I do not remember what your voice sounded like and I cannot say your laughter sounded like the flutter of angel’s wings.

You and I—we are so alike in so many ways. We are able to live and see this world as it is, with the hardline pragmatism of two creatures who have been scorned by the more tender kisses of life. _But when I kissed you, your teeth nipped at my mouth and I pulled you close, more harshly than I intended. Your hands tugged at my hair and your kisses bruised my lips. We were not romantic—or soft or slow or sweet. You and I, we were—we_ _are_ _—real._

And these words here, written in ink and tangible for all to see, shall never reach your eyes. And for that, Holly, _I am sorry._

 

_Ciel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know this chapter was supposed to be Drocell but this letter was just screaming to be writ and I couldn't help myself. (Holly, I'm really sorry I used your OC but she was closest to the girl I had in mind so I just...please tell me if you want this deleted, I'll be happy to oblige!) 
> 
> On another note, I think I'm going to begin re-using some of the OC's you were all kind enough to submit to me. If you don't want to see your OC being reused, feel free to message me here! :)


	63. Idleness and sorrow, a secret tear (Drossel Keinz)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like Rapunzel trapped in the tower, the doll-maker keeps you here.

(E/C) = your eye color

* * *

  

I saw you first in a lavender field, very late at night, with a dark sky and twinkling stars and thought to myself, “what a lovely girl, so precious to behold” and felt sad that you were standing there, so alone—all by yourself. No toys or companions or playmates nearby. So I made this for you—your own little doll, built of silver and gold and porcelain too. And it was put in a pale blue box, tied with a white satin bow, and delivered to your cobblestone doorstep.

And when you opened that box one fine summer day, so kind and sweet and good, I thought to myself, “never have I seen a smile more beautiful.”

But, my fairest lady, you were unaware of your beauty, so I built some dolls of iron and steel and they visited you, late at night, and stole you back to me.

“I am Drossel,” I said and bowed. 

You were too frightened to speak but you looked at me, with eyes of (E/C) and I thought, “you are not meant for silver and gold, so common and simple and vulgar. You are meant for platinum and palladium—the colors of the moon.” And I took you in my arms, my fair lady, and I carried you away—down the dark corridor lit by red wax candles and into the room with the high glass window so you could see the moon always. 

I filled it with fresh lavender and built you a bed of satinwood and silk; I laid you down and let you sleep, my fair lady.

But when you woke you looked a-fright and you tried to run, and you tried to hide. And my heart was saddened by your sudden treachery, for, my lady, _you belong to me._ You now sit by my side and I dress you pretty—in silks and satins and laces a-plenty. We take tea at two and look at the moon at night but I wonder, my lady, when did you lose your light?

You no longer smile and you no longer sing, even when I sit with you by the drawing room’s wing. With your rosebud lips silent and still, I think to myself, “no, no—I must remedy this still.”

So I write you this letter on this bright August day and the dolls bring you lavender from the fields far away. You sit by the window with your chin in your hand, and you gaze out at me—at this far and distant land. What are you thinking, I wonder to myself, what do you dream by the drinking well? My doll of stardust and moonbeams and Venetian nights.

You make me feel human and you make me feel whole—so please, my lady, won’t you smile for me at all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: At long last, Drossel Keinz! I'll admit, I had more fun writing him than I thought I would XD
> 
> Next letter will be an interlude. Though from who, I can't possible say. But in the spirit of his occupation, I'll give you three clues:  
> 1\. As a child, he wanted to be a pirate.  
> 2\. He once stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace.  
> 3\. His older brother IS the British government. 
> 
> Feedback (and guesses!) welcome :)


	64. Interlude: Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You: a new medical school graduate with a talent for tracking down lost people. 
> 
> Sherlock finds you're easier to work with than his homeless network. (A compliment of sorts.)

In regards to Miss (Y/N) (L/N),

 

Before you leap to any inaccurate or foolhardy conclusions—this is not a letter of fancy or persuasion but a letter of inquiry. Following a rather simple debate regarding the “preliminary” analysis of an unknown Jane Doe (name: Matilda Edwards, occupation: pub owner; had been missing for three and a half days; killed via asphyxiation by a man [her estranged stepfather] who had fat hands and a penchant for cheap bronze rings), I may or may not have induced the now irate Dr. Watson to "accidentally" spill his morning coffee on his laptop keyboard and though his first reaction was one of horror regarding that inane _blog_ of his, my reaction was far more appropriate.

Does he really expect me to sit behind a _desk_ and handwrite all my correspondence until he has that obsolete piece of technology repaired? (And though I have it on good authority that the actual hard drive was not damaged, the replacement laptop is not yet here. No doubt another one of Mycroft’s petty punishments though for _what,_ I can’t possibly say.)

Nevertheless, now that I’ve begun this ink stained address I may as well say (or write, for that matter) that it has been 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 7.2 seconds since I last saw you (in person) and I have no doubt you’ve already located the address and coordinates of Monsieur de la Gaard. But, because you have not yet texted me the address, I have come to one of two conclusions:

1) You, like Mycroft, enjoy your petty torments. (Though we both know this is a rather inaccurate portrayal of your character, for even the most basic human mind could recognize that your dedication to duty is a virtue to be admired—and _don’t_ swoon, for I am merely writing this in the most objective and clinical fashion possible.)

2) Something of great importance has come up (your sister-in-law is currently in labor and you have been forced to accompany her to the ER and, in that moment of panic, you accidentally left your phone at home) thus causing your delay in transmitting the information to me. And while I have little patience for useless demurrals, it is understandable that your sister-in-law should seek your medical expertise. After all, when I was injured and John was absent, there was no one else I would have entrusted my life to. In fact, now that I think about it, I do believe I’ve never thanked you for digging that hollow-point bullet from my chest cavity. 

So, thank you.

 

SH

 

P.S. I will be unable to go out tomorrow so come to 221B Baker Street with the coordinates on hand. Whether or not there will be tea, I can’t possibly say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Short, brief, and to the point. BBC's Sherlock a la Benedict Cumberbatch. (I think this is as sentimental as he's willing to get on paper LOL)


	65. Oh fire dance on the northern star (Hylla Aldan x Grell Sutcliff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bold, honest, and independent feminist - was it any wonder she'd catch the eye of Grell Sutcliff?
> 
> Personalized letter for EpodynoThanato

Dearest, darling Miss Aldan!

 

You will have to forgive the impropriety of such an address but, then again, since when have _we_ ever cared much for decorum? After all, I still (to this very day!) can’t believe you made me laugh so dreadfully in the midst of fair Juliet’s suicide, telling such naughty japes to me in a darkened theater! Why I don’t know whether to kiss you or—alas, such words might not be appropriate for the page. (Suffice to say I should like to hold you very tightly and tell you utterly _wicked_ you’ve been.)

Nevertheless, this missive _does_ contain two direct purposes—

Firstly, Hylla love, I’m not quite sure if you’re a masochist but— _darling!_ That Hugo novel was so terribly, wretched sad—so filled with broken vows and tormented love that I have been utterly engrossed, tearing through it page by page! (So much so that dear Will has become rather cross with me but—he _does_ look devastatingly handsome when he’s in a mood, doesn’t he?) Yet for the bathetic and tragic Quasimodo—to die by heartbreak is such a true and romantic way to depart this world! If only _I_ were the reaper of his soul—it would have made for a stage production more tragic than Hamlet and lovelier than the comet fall of the stars.

I am in an absolute fit of emotional frenzy thanks to you and Monsieur Hugo’s horridly beautiful book! And while this volatile discourse of empathy and romance is rather overwhelming, I am still overjoyed to feel _anything_ at all. Since meeting you, Hylla Aldan, with your stubborn pride and honest humor I have felt so _real._ Of course, I refer not to my fair countenance—a visage you and I both know is all natural beauty and completely bereft of medical alterations. Instead, I desire to express that when I am with you, I am inspired to take in the trivial things of human life—the way dewdrops cling to the late summer rose; how burlesque dancers shimmy their feather boas before parading on stage…the cool drink of cherry wine seeping to my bones. All these minute particulars that once held no appeal to me but you—you!

You with your passion and independence and bold, crimson beliefs…why, simply being around you, Hylla Aldan (so bawdy and honest and true), makes me feel as if my soul still wandered earth’s cobblestone streets. With your chestnut hair and milk and honey complexion—you are one of the few creatures whose spirit and beauty are a match for my own and darling, I truly do enjoy spending these afternoon treasures with you.

So enjoyable, indeed, that I have purchased us tickets to attend Much Ado About Nothing—you know how dearly I adore that play! And _yes_ darling, you shall have to accompany me, for who else will make me smile in between those dull intermissions and senseless prologues?

See you on Tuesday my stubborn, silly love.

 

Kisses, 

_G_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “That Hugo novel…” — refers to Victor Hugo’s 1831 classic, ‘The Hunchback of Notre-Dame’ 
> 
> A/N: I hope you liked this EpodynoThanato and thanks once again for that ultra sweet review! ^^


	66. Rising fire I could not take (MissBelleSutcliff x Claude Faustus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auspicious queen of childish joys - you have captivated the interest of the spider demon. 
> 
> Personalized letter for MissBelleSutcliff

To the lady fairest, Miss Belle Huntington—

How precious you looked when we last met, gauzed in gold as the music played. One hand held yours, the other cradled your waist. And in the dark intimacy betwixt us two, I could hear the thrum of your pulse as you leaned into me, the plush softness of your breasts pressing against my chest. How sweetly you smiled, dear child, with rosy lips and cheeks, and how you laughed—an effortless, effervescent sound that tempered, for a brief moment, my disdain for the company around us. The loveliness of your being caught me by slight surprise, for I never imagined that a master so inept as mine could have possibly secured the acquaintance and friendship of one so angelically _pure._

The world decays around you and yet, there you stand, a golden effigy of luminous charm whose words are of the warmest wit and whose countenance is a constellation of near perfect beauty. Intrigue into passion, corrosion into gold, and corruption into desire—that is what makes a Trancy butler. The world is suffering a famine of beauty—a mockery of life—void of the exceptional few and filled with mistresses as hard as clay. The silence of the rotting sea festers against the December air and the contract of my obligation is but a thin spider’s web keeping me tethered to this realm.

It is astounding I did not claim you sooner.

With eyes so green and hair so bright, how will your seraphic soul feel if I were to come into you and press my mouth against yours? Holding you, petite as you are, in my arms while the night sings around us. A concerto of silence punctured by your soft, sweet breaths and I wonder—what beauty may I steal from you? 

You, the flame of every funeral pyre—burning, blazing, tempered only by the August sun. Speak a little, and lend me your words.

My mouth seeks reciprocation, the decadence of your kiss and the honeyed taste of you. What change have you inspired in me that I should want to touch, very gently, the curve of your breast and witness the soft blush of your cheek?

Would you give me your hand again, I should see that we are never parted from now until the eclipse of time. (Make haste, Miss Huntington, for I have ways to go before I am satisfied.)

 

Yours.

 

_C. Faustus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the sappy Claude but I am on an updating SPREE. So sorry for my month long absence but I’ve returned with goodies to share :) 
> 
> Thank you for the request Belle!


	67. Gambling gin for the midnight kick (Baldroy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a rare night off, Baldroy meets one heck of a beauty - even if she's got dirt on her face, a cut on one knee, and can outdrink nearly every man, worker, and sailor at the pub. 
> 
> In other words - she's a keeper.

Evening, beautiful—

 

I’m guessing you won’t remember me but I sure as heck remember you. (Y/N) (L/N), of the midnight gin. Never in all my days did I think a beauty such as yourself would be wandering into local pubs at the dead of night. You know what they call that ‘round here? The witching hour—but ah, you’re far too pretty to be a witch.

Maybe a siren. With legs.

In all honesty you make a poor double agent—for one thing you’re just far too pretty. For another you’re far too smart. Who discusses literature and Rembrandt at their local bar? Least you could drink—took down moonshine better than most men I know and trust me, when you’ve been in the army long as I have, you begin to pick up on the drinkers and show-offs. You’re a show-off _and_ a drinker—rare combination. (Though I’d ask you to refrain from trying to outdrink _every_ man in the pub—I’m not always gonna be there to save your lovely self—though you could’ve just thanked me instead of trying to punch me. In the throat.)

Besides, ragged clothes and a pageboy cap’s not gonna do much when your skin’s fairer than fair and your mouth’s too pretty to resist. My one night off and I get to see a girl who can take a punch, take a drink, and take a damn night out without getting sloshed after a couple of beers. ‘Course that does bring up the question of why you were there in the first place.

 _I’m a seamstress,_ you said but honey you could hit with all the force of a pissed off dockworker. And (since you might not remember telling me this—you did just down three pints of homemade moonshine. To be honest, I’m amazed you’re still alive) I’ve attached a few satchels of turmeric and nettles for your grandmother’s arthritis. This one guy I know says they’re supposed to work wonders and usually I don’t take anything at face value but this guy—well. He certainly knows what he’s doing.

Next night off you might want to consider going to the same pub. You did say you’ve never left Manchester and me—well, I’m an ex-army dog who’s not worth much but I have been to my fair share of places. Tell me, you ever seen a gator the size of a fishing vessel? Or how about deserts that look like a perpetual field of topaz and a night sky so clear you could count the individual stars? And ah, you may be skeptical now but look behind the letter and you’ll see an old journal.

It’s not mine, you see. Used to belong to a fellow named James Whitside and sure, he was a son of a bitch who woke you up by kicking you in the ribs but he was a damned good artist.

Damned good friend too.

When we were posted in South Dakota we spent most of our nights camped out in these never ending open fields. It was out there that the earth met the sky and every horizon line was so clear it could cut you clean through. Anyway, Whitside liked to draw when we weren’t marching along or killing each other for the Great Plains. Took a real liking to sketching camp scenes—the hilly plains and grass so tall it’d swallow you right up. The bison that could travel for miles and the monarch butterflies that’d land on the blue bellflowers or wild bergamots. South Dakota may not be the big city turnout of Manchester or London but I’ll tell you this—the colors on the open plain become an art form and you know, I’d love to take a girl as pretty as you down there with me.

Take a look through and tell me what you think.

 

—Baldroy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- So I spent hours combing through US-led wars in the late 1880s and the only ones I could find were battles fought with the Native Americans over Manifest Destiny and the move west. I purposely kept Baldroy’s history a little vague but I tried to make it as realistic as possible. (The Florida reference was just for fun but Baldroy did mention that he’d spent time in Arizona so there’s that.) 
> 
> A/N: Reviews make up update faster I swear.


	68. And the sun was white (Charles Phipps)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, exuberant, a whirlwind of color. A congratulations is in order.

_July 1885_

 

Dearest (Y/N),

I hope you will forgive me for the impropriety of it all but I have heard, with invariable remembrance, that congratulations of the sincerest kind are in order. It has been many a-day since we last spoke and though the hours have been filled with a constant and perpetual stream of work and responsibility, I find the absence of you a rather disconcerting lacuna that has, rather paradoxically, filled me with a sense of emptiness that I cannot verbalize quite yet. It seems strange that I should write this to you when before, you would burst into my parlor room with your cheeks flushed (from having run all the way here) and your exuberance bright and sincere.

The abbey will, no doubt, benefit from the eternal sunshine of your soul and the happiness which cannot seem to be contained. I remember, not so long ago, when it was her highness Princess Beatrice’s 28th birthday and her majesty threw a festival of sound and color to end all celebrations. I distinctly remember walking the whole of Buckingham’s gilded ballroom in search of you, only to find that you were bent over the sweets table, a cake in each hand. How you smiled when you saw me—a smile of genuine joy and gladness that, upon witnessing it, I forgot the whole world around me.

And even with a smear of white frosting on your left cheek and your elaborate hairstyle coming undone, even with your fingertips still sticky with honey and wine, I thought you the most beautiful creature I’ve ever beheld. So simply dressed as you were—in a pale blue gown with few laces and frills—and truly, no need for cosmetics. The way your cheeks and lips were roses in full bloom, and how even with no jewelry you seemed to outshine every great lady in the room.

That was the night I first fell in love with you and subsequently, with all other nights, I fell in love twice over—again and again, a never ending crescendo of affection that built up within me until I could no longer bear it.

Perhaps those around me could sense it as well. Grey—oblivious as he is with matters of the heart—would often provoke me to good-humored agitation though I feared what your reaction might be if I should make it known to you as well. We, who have been companions and friends and confidants since childhood…what could I profess—what could I _say_ —that would adequately communicate even one fifth of what I truly felt towards you? How after I ascended to the rank of earl, when lands and titles and medals of honor were bestowed upon me, the people changed and so did their voices but you—clever, simple, sweet _you_ —remained the same.

My last and final constant in life.

Is it selfish of me to be telling you this, only days before your departure? I suppose it is—but I have carried with me this love for some twenty years and it has not quelled. It has not silenced, even after that bitter altercation that left you in tears and, for the first time in our lives, it was _I_ who made you cry. The flesh of my hands burned, aching to hold you, but I knew I could not reach out. The weight of that realization pierced through the armor of all that I’ve ever known and for hours I sat alone, ruminating on the choices I’ve made, hoping to grasp the tail-end of an epiphany that never came.

Because what was the purpose of it all when I knew that you were falling apart and it was I who caused it? The abstract failings of the human heart is a subject I’ve veered away from—tried to escape from—because it was a matter that I could comprehend internally but could not, for the life of me, express outwardly. How could I tell you, in so many words, that I selfishly wanted you to be mine forever? That I wanted to place a ring on the fourth finger of your right hand and wanted to know, even if it was in the smallest measure, that you might love me in return?

But the internal dichotomy of pure rationality broke my confession in two because _how could I?_ How could I forcibly bind you to me when your heart belonged to God? When your soul burned with the angelic purity of seraphs and your heart ached with a compassion no other human being could ever possibly comprehend? You were made for the stained glass cathedrals of heaven and if the closest earth can offer is an abbey and a cross, then so be it. Who am I to tear you away?

 

In writing this, I have come to understand that this is a letter you can never read. It is not my right to burden you with the inadequacies of my soul or the virulent greed of my own vices. I have always loved you from afar and if it will bring you peace then I shall continue to do so—quietly, faithfully, and without regret. My love is imperfect, yes, but it is also the only truth I know—the only epiphany that can be grasped.

You are a wealth of alchemy and sincerity and my only wish is that you might know how dear you are to me.

 

Sincerely yours,

Charles Phipps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just realized I never wrote a letter for Phipps and then I go and write one where his beloved is ready to join a convent. But um, review? Please? ^^” 
> 
> (Side note: this girl might be my favorite voice so far—she’s fun, she’s bright, and she loves food. What more could you ask for? XD)


	69. Interlude: Levi Ackerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're far away but at least you're dreaming.

(Y/N)—

 

I guess it’s human fallacy to miss someone. It’s life. You live, you die, the fucking end. We’ve got another expedition coming up but even the new recruits have lost their luster. It’s boring around here when people are so obedient because it still doesn’t lessen the fucking paperwork.

It was easier to work with when you were here. Everyone else’s got shit for brains and can’t work a filing cabinet or print as neatly as you do. Most of these recruits can’t read or write and we don’t have time to put them in schoolrooms and teach them how to survive. You were only with us for a few months but in that time you taught some of them to write their names and their homes and they’re grateful. You probably also spoiled them a bit too much. Babying them with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Where’d you learn to cook like that? Noblemen’s daughters aren’t found in kitchens.

You think I didn’t know who you were? Who else could have hands that soft.

You’d never worked a day in your life. Never lifted anything heavier than an ink well or touched anything other than your ivory piano keys.

I wasn’t particularly fond of you at first. A runaway girl who Erwin took in because he thought you’d make nice leverage and maybe the government might give us more funding in exchange for your personal safety. At least you didn’t cry. In fact, you always _smiled_ but at that time I didn’t know how wild your imagination ran. You still dreamed of fairytales when the rest of us totaled titan kills. You didn’t belong here, playing house with soldiers and scientists.

And me.

I’m not good for anyone or anything—except, maybe, eradicating titans. But even that wasn’t voluntary. Unlike you, I didn’t run away from a castle and a fiancé. ~~Unlike you, I—~~

And then you became a medic. Burying yourself behind textbooks while trying to help us with all the bureaucratic shit we were piled under. Insubordinate brat.

You couldn’t leave me alone, could you? Walking into my office with tea and—whatever else you put on. You smelled too nice for being stuck in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know where you found that filing cabinet or those manila folders and I don’t know when you got it in your head to _trust_ me but for a moment, I might have understood. I might have also shared your dream. Mine isn't vivid in color and it isn't complex or well-written. It's composed of one word. Just one.

_Freedom._

Everyone fights for freedom and I guess it’s better that you wound up at the Survey Corps then god knows where else. And it was nice, for a while, to watch you dream.

Happy birthday (Y/N). 

 

Levi

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Critiques welcome. Seriously, I’ve never written Levi before XD also partially inspired by Lana Del Rey’s song 'Tomorrow Never Came'. (It’s soooo soothing and beautiful and it’s a freaking duet with Sean Ono Lennon!)


	70. A fragrance of roses (Sebastian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU: Fifty years ago Sebastian Michaelis chose his career over the girl who loved him. Now, as cancer kills him and his awards gather dust on cold shelves, he begins to realize Charon’s price for crossing the ferry.

My dearest (Y/N),

The years have come and gone, breathing out memories as they decay. I have been witness to the rise and crests of this country and to the work I vested my life’s blood in. It seems inconsequential now to write you all of this…once, I knew you by the soft sighs that caught in your throat as I kissed you. Now, I don’t even know where you are, where you might be—are you safe? Are you alone? Have you chased your paper dreams to Prague and revived your prose far from the maddening crowd? Poetry and art were your passions and even in our youth I feared the corrosion of beauty. No longer was the painted canvas a sight of monumental achievement, no longer was the scripted word a wordsmith’s dream—the distractions of modernity have created a distance between our lovers and drifters and I so longed to reconcile the moving pictures with the glory of who we once were.

Those opaque dreams we once cherished...after all, is it not human nature to yearn for Endymion's touch? To dwell upon the tragedies of Vietnam that the children of this generation see as a waste. How long has it been, I wonder, since a milkman last appeared with glass bottles while the birds sang overheard? The 50s Americana has long since passed and yet I find myself entrenched in it still. I, who have never belonged anywhere, long for the simplicity of a bygone era.

The youth I wasted—my time spent as a cynic and a false martyr. I willfully slaved myself to the cinematic beauty I witnessed as a child—I was but 7 when I saw my first moving picture, and it was 1953. The orphanage didn't care much where I wandered so long as I caused them no trouble. The headmistresses was a stout woman who enjoyed whiskey and I thought it wonderful she slept so early each and every day.

Even though that crumbling manse is but a faded memory I can still breathe the white sunshine of that July afternoon, when New York’s concrete city permeated life with their bustling taxicabs and the boxy carts of hot dog vendors. Colored billboards reaching high overhead, framed by yellow lights. The admen of the east coast with their Marlboro cigarettes and glass tumblers of Hennessy. That was the day I saw Miss Monroe on the silver screen and I thought to myself, _If all it takes is my being a millionaire to marry a woman like her, then by all creation—I’ll be one, come hell or high-water._

It never occurred to me that she would ever fall to earth and I never thought I would see any woman save her. But (Y/N), you’ve already heard this whispered tale caressed against your skin; the softness of your thighs and the heat of your touch searing into my left shoulder. On those nights I etched my dreams into your palms and held you against the evening sky. And if, fifty years ago, anyone dared speak to me of the impossible reality we found ourselves in, I would not have listened. At 25 I was confident about all things I still did not know and I believed so fervidly in the aspirations of my youth.

A plethora of Hollywood lights and gilded premieres paved way to shootings and filming and cut scenes. The Stork Club and script re-writes with a cigarette dangling between my fingers. The thought that I was invincible—seated behind my desk of ebony black as the Paramount lots mounded one by one, each a dream of its own. And as each film rolled into post-production I sat there and wondered— _did you know? Did you know these are for_ you.

Years ago, I murmured _Where did you learn to kiss like that?_  against your cherry lips. You smiled coyly and whispered back, _I used to sell kisses for the milk fund._

(I longed to put this on the silver screen and though I'd plagiarized plenty from my own life, I could not bear to part with this particular memory.) 

(Y/N), my calligraphy is no longer perfect. There are ink blots across the page and sometimes the letters have been jolted and shaken by the arthritis in my left hand. The beauty I once used as validation has fled and though you cannot see me, I want you to know. To look upon me and think _monster,_ for where have all the roses gone? Hurl at me all I deserve because I am a coward. I could not bring myself to face you in our youth and, as the decades passed, as I withered and wavered in my Hollywood bed, as the cancer struck my bones and left me unable to walk—I thought of you.

And I dreamed you might forgive me for I cannot bear to forgive myself.

It has been more than five decades since I last heard you sigh and it seems now, as a final punishment, I cannot seem to dream of you. Your form is shapeless and I have forgotten the color of your eyes. The sensation of your touch has fled and I no longer remember what it was like to kiss your open mouth. It has long been the devil’s delight to take of man what they hold most precious.

The memories of you have gone. 

 

— _S. Michaelis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “…revived your prose far from the maddening crowd” — refers to Victorian realist Thomas Hardy, best known today for his novel ‘Far from the Maddening Crowd’ 
> 
> \- Endymion: a mortal who the goddess Selene found so beautiful that she asked her father Zeus to grant him eternal life. He agreed and so Endymion was put in an eternal sleep. 
> 
> \- The Marilyn Monroe film Sebastian went to see was 1953’s ‘Niagara.’ Marilyn plays the alluring femme fatale Rose and she’s in stunning form—it’s a classic film noir and terribly entertaining to watch.
> 
> \- “Where did you learn to kiss…” — borrowed these lines from 1959’s ‘Some Like It Hot,’ another Monroe film and my personal favorite. 
> 
> A/N: Review please?


	71. The polynomial function of positive affection (Othello)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Othello meets (Y/N) on a street corner and decides that love, like the sinusoidal function, can be a bit all over the place.

Well hello and how do you do? You may not remember me but I’m the fellow you were talking to yesterday at 4:03 PM, do you recall? I was in a white lab coat and I think I had my purple socks on but I can’t be sure—the weather was dreadful wasn’t it? Sutcliff—she’s my coworker (grand gal with an even grander temper)—said that it’d rain but she’s never right about these weather predictions. Can you imagine her in forensics? She’d end up smashing the equipment to bits and pilfering my licorice—say, do you like licorice? Mine are imported from Denmark and sometimes Norway but—I never did get the chance to ask you if you preferred things savory or sweet, did I? In any case, that is not the (immediate) point of this letter.

You see, I’ve been watching you for quite some time (fret not, I have no desire to inflict any unnecessary harm on your person, your family, or your 18 year old brother who is currently getting drunk with a few of his cohorts at the local brewery) and only wanted to say hello but whenever I visit London I’m always so _busy._ It’s very upsetting that we could only speak for twelve minutes but I think those were the best twelve minutes I’ve ever experienced! Who knew you’d be such a witty conversationist! (Not that I didn’t think so—! But, well…you _do_ work as a seamstress and sewing doesn’t exactly require a lot of talking…although I suppose I can’t be exempt from that rule. I study dead people so that doesn’t leave much room for conversation either—)

In any case, I remember you telling me that you had a day off next week—the 22nd of October, the death day anniversary of a very good friend of mine as well! We usually celebrate that day together but he’s gone off to France for a while and…I probably shouldn’t have written that on paper only—it’s very easy to talk to you and there aren’t many people who’re willing to talk to me these days.

Either way!—I was wondering if you might like to join me for a data-supper? An occasion where you and I visit a restaurant and sit across from one another for two to three hours while consuming vast quantities of food and exchanging a discourse over various topics of conversation.

Would that sound pleasant? I don’t know many restaurants in London so you can choose any one you wish! (So long as there isn’t live music—I’ve never been fond of live music unless it’s the oboe but—this is all rather improper isn’t it? A woman ought to have first say on a date. Or is this a date? Would a date be too casual a term? I understand that the human realm operates with far more propriety than the world I come from so—not that I come from a different world! When I say ‘world’ I mean country! I’m a foreigner, yes! By Jove, I’m a foreigner! From a very distant land—so distant! I’m…I’m—I’m an American! We’re very freewheeling people.)

Er—if you’d like very much to agree to this proposition then please leave a yellow tulip outside your window—I promise I’ll see it.

Oh! I never did tell you my name, did I? It’s not a very long name so please—just call me Othello.

 

Curiously awaiting the sight of your chosen botanical plant,

Othello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I remember someone suggested I do a letter for Othello and now I’ve decided: I really, REALLY like Othello lmao please let us see more of him Yana! 
> 
> Reviews are, as Othello would say, a shot of dopamine-enhancing affection :) 
> 
> (And yes, he forgot to write a formal address XD)


	72. A gentle caress of heavenly light (Agni)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weston College arc. In a rare moment of quiet contemplation, Agni writes a letter to the childhood sweetheart who, after all these years, still captivates and commands his still-beating heart.

My dearest of darlings, my nightingale of sweetest song—

Only a few words today and they are on paper, hastily scribbled with all the inelegance of a child at play, and I beg that you might forgive me for my slavishness in having done so. I cannot seem to control mind, rhyme, or reason when I think of you, even when the dawn’s colors have not painted the sky. I am awake, still, holding eternal thoughts of you and dreaming of so many things that center around my hands caressing your face, your words spoken in my direction…

How I miss you, and how I dream of you—the two of us, hand in hand, playing our childish games by the fountain’s edge. In my vain, youthful fancy I neglected our gods and thought myself a being of power, unbound and unburdened by the laws of men. Tell me again how you made me feel light, balancing a basket of apples on your head, weaving through the marketplace with a song on your lips.

It might make you smile—with the corners of your eyes crinkling and fragrance scenting the air—to know that his highness is in good health and finer spirits! He has recently enrolled in an institution of higher education known as Weston College at the behest of Lord Phantomhive, a boy who is by turn resolved and hesitant, though you might never be able to tell. His determination and quiet strength overwhelms and I am overjoyed that my prince has found a friend he may both protect and look up to.

Prince Soma has grown so much since we departed Bengal and I am sure that because you cannot see him now, raising funds for the local orphanage and taking charge of campaigns to humanize workhouses—you might believe my words to be false even though they are as true today as England is far away. The love I have for my prince—and the admiration I hold for him—can now, at last, be seen by others besides you and I. I remember so fondly the way he used to cling to you, begging the fairest _mahila shikshak_ to whisper another story before night fell.

He has come so far and I believe, (Y/N), he has always remembered your words as well. 

_Faith in others can be the truest form of love._

Those were the words you used to conclude our prince's favorite tale about the tiger and lily-maiden, and it is these words that he has abided by since his arrival on this odd and fair isle. It seems to me that the most beautiful things arise from the strangest soil; that friendships may be cultivated from the misgivings of others and, little by little, the heavenly sun rises. 

One day (Y/N), we shall return to the red earth of Bengal and I may see you smile once more, with all the vivid beauty of a Himalayan sunrise. There, we might sit and I could tell you tales of foreign lands and concrete streets, of feathered carriages and fine suits of armor...might you even indulge me when I tell you the culinary escapades my prince and I entered? Of the friendships we wove and the tender feelings we felt when watching our friends go? 

And perhaps, if my prince should choose to remain here, you might once again bequeath a smile of forgiveness to a man as unworthy as I. 

(But even then, I promise—you will always be in my heart (Y/N) and until my dying day, I shall devote my heart to you as I have devoted my faith in my prince.) 

 

Lovingly,

_Arshad_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- mahila shikshak: Hindi for 'female teacher' (I lowkey had to use Google translate for this because I can't speak a word of Hindi) 
> 
> \- Arshad Satyendra Iyer = Agni's real name (also silently weeping over the fact that he was only 31 when he died but lived a better/more fulfilled life than most people 4x his age) 
> 
> A/N: I am so sorry for this wretched delay in posting Agni’s letter ;_; believe it or not this is like the sixth draft I typed up because he’s just so PURE and ALTRUISTIC and I’m sitting here with all my cynicism and vile, sin-drenched characters like “lol, what is goodness” ^^” 
> 
> Also with Halloween approaching (start of October = pearypie buying pumpkins and cobwebs) I will be doing a limited series of alternate universe Black Butler babes…so you’ll be receiving quite a few letters from Mr. Michaelis, your very sexy English lit teacher; Undertaker, the hot silver-haired dude you ran into the club last night and never thought you’d ever see again; a kagune-wielding Ciel Phantomhive who’s out for a ghoulishly fun time (lol I’m sorry that pun had to be made); and a variety of other characters in costume! 
> 
> (If you have any suggestions feel free to tell me in the comments below!) Possible ideas I’m still floating around include a 1920s prohibition AU with you as the barmaid who suddenly becomes a gangster’s moll, a Renaissance AU with you as the daughter of a wealthy lord who falls for a talented painter, and a yandere AU where the hottest guy in school turns out to be psychotic. And he’s got a crush on YOU. 
> 
> This is just a fun series to show my appreciation for everyone who’s kept up with this fic (…and because I’m that one loser who starts hanging up Halloween decorations as soon as October 1st hits LOL) 
> 
> Tell me what you think!


	73. Halloween Special: Mr. Michaelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Y/N), 
> 
> I will be available today after school from 3 to 4 in my office (third floor, six doors down from our usual classroom). Don’t hesitate to drop by to discuss paper topics. 
> 
> — S. Michaelis

In regards to Miss (Y/N) (L/N),

 

I apologize for the impropriety of all this but due to a series of unforeseen circumstances (and a rather poorly timed, impromptu staff meeting), I have been called away to discuss, coincidentally enough, the final arrangements for your graduating class. Congratulations, Miss (L/N), on your ascertain from this plane of secondary education and how fortuitous it was that I managed to have you as a student for three of these four years. Your decision to take my short fiction class was an unexpected pleasure of the most satisfying sort, seeing you sitting front row with all the eager, modest innocence of a rose-mouthed maiden. Tell me, (Y/N), did you like having my fullest attention?

The way your hands with clasp atop your desk when you leaned forward, cheeks rosy and eyes bright with eager anticipation, as I stood over you. You’ve always been so interested in the intricacies of the written word, haven’t you (Y/N)? The way your breaths become shallow as you squirm in your seat, desiring to absorb all you can. How many times have I passed you, watching, waiting—even when your own eyes sought my presence for yourself. Dearest (Y/N)—such a naughty girl aren’t you? Wanting teacher all to herself, even in a classroom filled with students you sat there, thighs pressed close together as you tried to keep movement to a minimum. The way your breasts strained against the thin silk of your blouse, how my own fingers itched to tear it off you, to watch the pearlescent buttons shatter on the linoleum floor and—are you blushing, (Y/N)?

Softly but desperately breathing, legs crossing and uncrossing as you feel the moisture dampen between your thighs, how you long for me to stand behind you, one hand coming to cup the soft fullness of your rounded breast…the other edging further and further down, slipping beneath that indecently short skirt you’ve taken to wearing. And _oh—_ ah, stay still little (Y/N). Can you do that for teacher? Lean into me, head pressed against my shoulder as my mouth comes to taste the silken sweetness of your skin, let me caress, just once, the roses between your thighs.

If night could eclipse day, you would be the truest form of lavender and I would covet you with insurmountable impatience. After all, I have always composed fictions about my life, the details surrounding it and the experiences chartered within them. I have never felt passionate about anything, save the written word—it was my mistress, and I enclosed myself within her.

But then you appeared—a sweet little girl of sixteen, with your milk pale thighs and pouting rose mouth—a beautiful, cherubic darling who only wanted teacher’s attention. Whereas the lackadaisical denizens of my various classes failed to impress—or even amuse—me, you glowed under the honey dawn and breathed a perfume of sighs that held me captive without a single conscious move on your part. What was it Oscar Wilde once said? _I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad._

_I want a breath of our passion to stir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain._

That then is what _I_ want—but you’ve always risen to the occasion, haven’t you (Y/N)? Every bit of extra credit I’ve issued, every word I’ve written. I’ve more than once closed my eyes and felt the ghost of your kiss sighed over my lips, the touch of your fingertips grazing my wrist—

 _Mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais,_  as the Russian pen would write.I would derive no pleasure in knowing that it was not I who was between your thighs, kissing and touching and _being_ —I have grown far too fond of our mutual possession, the way I would bend you over the front of my desk and you would comply, so sweetly, tugging up the hem of your schoolgirl skirt. My breath hot on your neck, your cries escaping the still, empty classroom colored by the euphoria of your sighs and the climax of your release. 

(And have I told you? I've always loved your hair best after its been tangled between my fingers.) 

I hardly think distance will be able to keep us apart. 

 

Cordially, 

_Professor Michaelis_

 

(And be sure to bring a bound copy of  _Madame Bovary_ to lecture—I've always had a fondness for inescapable love affairs.) 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "Mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais" - references Vladimir Nabokov's 'Lolita' 
> 
> A/N: I was going for smut but then Sebastian got sentimental XD (and yes, Seb got a teaching position at your university lmao I think I made him more stalkerish than romantic but eh, he's trying LOL) 
> 
> Thoughts? :)


	74. Halloween Special: The Undertaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lead singer of British punk rock band The Undertaker has a rather…unique interpretation of courtship. 1990s, London.

To my very dearest girl—

Are you pouting now? Worried I might not recollect the pretty young thing I'm addressing? Teehee—fret not silly girl, I still remember your name even if I _do_ find it much more fun to call you _mine..._ what with your blushed cheeks and pearlescent smiles, do you know what you are? With all that pretension and too-soft skin exposed in _very_ indecent ways? 

Why, it all boils down to one simple fact—you’re a lovable snob, that’s what you are! With those rosy lips and proper smiles—sneaking away from grandmama’s beach house to attend my humble little soiree? Oh, you are _too_ much (Y/N)—but I suppose that’s what you wanted me to say, eh? Dressed as you were, why only a pretty little thing with a voice like money could have caught my eye standing so far back! Were you afraid of the crowd? We _do_ get a bit rowdy around the witching hour but I’ll let you in on a little secret: we’re really quite nice and friendly—though...everyone has a beastly side to them, don’t they?

Even you, a spoiled little vixen! _Oh,_ it is _quite_ rare to find one of Manhattan’s finest socialites trotting down our back alleys—the beer _is_ a bit bitter and the music, a _tad_ louder but let me just say—

You’d look _wonderful_ in black. 

Anyhow and anywho, you must be wondering who this is so I’ll tell you directly: I’m the fellow you slept on last night, don’t you remember? You had, I think, half a _glass_ (and _my, my—_ I can’t believe you used a _glass_ ~!) of _something_ and then promptly began to peruse the crowd, looking for someone— _anyone_ —interesting.

How fortunate that you thought I was ah, what was the word you used?

Oh yes, that's right...I was—

_Half-decent._

Teehee. You really are a wretched tease, aren’t you? Swaying through the disembodied crowd, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy—my, you made a rather lovely picture under the low-lit lights and blackbox club...even if you _did_ trip over three people and your own two feet. How you grabbed me by my wrist and demanded that we go somewhere that didn’t smell quite like burnt leather and _that,_ most definitely, made me _laugh._ (Are you  _always_ so demanding with strangers you don't know?) 

Perhaps taking you to the rooftop was a bit premature on my part—you could barely walk and I was never one to keep a close eye on anything…though, the fact that you’re alive really should speak volumes about this whole affair, hm? (Funnily enough, I still remember your smell—key lime and sophistication and white diamonds. Even how you fell against my shoulder, hair loose and wild as you tried to keep a steady breath—who knew debutantes like yourself could _snore?_ )

(Though you  _did_ snore in a very pretty way. Quite appealing. A bit like baby guinea pig.) 

But never the mind, you're probably waiting for my compliment aren't you? About how lovely you looked in spite of being drunk, and how stubbornly charming you can be when I mention something you don't quite like, and how I quite happen to like the way you talk.

(And I might like you all the more if you showed me how you kissed.)

Ring me up why don’t you?

 

— _C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “…with a voice like money” — references golden girl/socialite Daisy Buchanan from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 'The Great Gatsby' 
> 
> \- “we’re really quite nice and friendly—but everyone has a beastly side to them, don’t they?” — quote said by Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious 
> 
> \- The 'C' here references the Undertaker = Cedric K. Ros...something something theory :) 
> 
> A/N: Y'all I think this may be my favorite Undertaker chapter so far XD 
> 
> Up next: the Sapphire Ghoul makes a rare appearance. (And apparently, has a heart too.)


	75. Halloween Special: The Sapphire Ghoul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciel Phantomhive makes a rare appearance, descending down from his tower in the clouds to interact and mingle with the humans and ghouls below. 
> 
> And in the process, falls just a little bit in love.

What did you think you were doing down there, you foolish, insipid, careless little girl?

Did you think perusing the 20th ward so late at night would be a _thrilling experience?_ There are so many ways that too-soft skin of yours could have been bruised and cut, so many ways your vermillion blood could have been spilled. And in the end, no one would know how the mutilated corpse of unidentifiable face and figure once belonged to someone like you—silly, foolish, proud, and far too tempting an offering in parts like these. Don’t you know? Nights don’t belong to you—not anymore.

Though, I suppose I should have known better, what with your dress and smiles—a foreigner’s daughter of inherited wealth and unquestionable prestige, used to getting what she wants. Your reliance on public records is impressive though I suppose the end result should have been obvious to me from the start. The Phantomhive riches have always been mired in notoriety and we have not had the _pleasure_ (and here, I use this term with more ridicule than aspiration) to have interacted with the virtuous caryatids of Tokyo society.

This does not mean that your actions will go unnoticed and I insist—with all the polite formality the bureau inflicts upon those of my kind—that you _stay away._ Whatever childish fantasy you seek to fulfill, I suggest you dispel them—and quickly. This world has no place for innocents like you, humans who have been left untouched by suffering and whose hearts still beat with a sweetness we have forgotten. You have never questioned the reality of justice and all the lamentations it contains, and I am not half so noble to teach you anything of value.

I care very little for those 'honorable' causes that, in fact, are little more than burdens tied with silk ribbons. After all, there's a war coming—a very fine, selfish, crudely made war conjured between two hells I have no wish to involve myself in. One began as something noble—something _honorable_ —to protect and defend those who could not defend themselves. Decades later, another such organization rose as something good, something _honorable,_ and they too fight for a virtue that no longer exists. What can bridge these two shores but an endless, extravagant war that would only ensure the deaths of people like you.

Truly, what star have you fallen from that allows you to smile and laugh and love so easily? Can humans even comprehend the acts you’re capable of? What do you believe? Why didn’t you _run?_

_Why are you not afraid?_

There are so many ways I could see your death come to life before me—a blood-dimmed tide where the ceremony of innocence is drowned, where you exist only in memory even as your flesh decays. Scavenged and scraped from the pale bones of your body until even they turn to dust and you, in your entirety, are gone. You saw me then, didn't you? In the dimly lit alleyway where I killed those of your own kind. Rapists, thieves, criminals—they’re easy to dispose of and when you thanked me, you childish, _foolish_ girl, their blood was still warm on my hands.

Do you know how close you came to my kagune? How easily I could have skewered and killed and seen the light die in your eyes? Why didn’t you run? _Why were you not afraid?_

Do you know how many nights I have spent, restless and awake, wanting to hurt every thing I possibly can? How when I walk down the street I’m no longer able to differentiate between _desire_ and _necessity_ because you have become both of these things? You have carved out a place in my soul and you fit there, so neatly, and everything is  _warm_ when I think of you. 

Those who I once sneered at, whose idealistic way of life I thought preposterously self-indulgent, I am starting to reconsider. I have always lived for myself and there has been nothing my wealth could not buy me—the lines were drawn, my mechanisms set. I would not be careless, I would not be conspicuous; I would have nothing to do with rogues and renegades, with gourmets or binge eaters or pitiful crossbreeds. Whatever bribes I needed to pay, I would double and whatever agents I deemed worthy I would track. The game of survival became a monotonous existence because there was nothing else. 

But then I saw _you_ —and my life, a poorly spun tapestry of loose threads and frayed edges, faded until there was _only_ you. 

For nine days I have been at your unconscious mercy and I have hated and loved you for every moment of those long hours. You, who cannot possibly know my story, who cannot comprehend why we do what we do—why we eat what we eat. You, with your too-bright smile and too-curious expression, offering me gratitude when I deserved none. You, who are so different from humans and ghouls alike, who has never had to work or wonder or suffer the pains and accusations of those who were born different from those of your kind.

Break my heart if you’d like, shatter whatever remains you find in me.

With you, I don’t think I’d mind.

 

— _Ciel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had quite a bit of fun writing this and Ciel wasn't supposed to turn out so cynical but eh, he does what he wants XD 
> 
> (Psst, can anyone identify all the TG references? ;))


	76. Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! (Vincent Phantomhive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major spoilers for chapters 130 and 131.

Dearest (Y/N),

I have never known time to be kind to anyone but as always, you seem to defy the odds, so far away as you are. You have watched over my son and seen to his adventures with that hellhound of his (interesting face, hm? I can’t imagine all the trouble he must have put Frances through) and though I am not a man accustomed to saying thanks, I must express my gratitude for your unfailing devotion. Even as the years swept by you have remembered his face and empathized with the Queen’s Watchdog when no one else would have. We Phantomhives are not used to such kindnesses.

I suppose you might now be questioning the nature and purpose of this letter—a request, perhaps? A midnight rendezvous? Alas, there is none to be found. This is an aimless note of little consequence to anyone else but one of very deep and dare I say… _profound_ importance to me. How troublesome it is that I’ve predeceased my children by so many years!—but I suppose they’ve accomplished more with me in my grave than they would have had I lived. I’ve always been rather fond of indulgence and, dare I say, I indulged my boys far more than necessary—the cruel reality of a watchdog’s life ought to be known but I shielded them as best I could.

How unfortunate, perhaps, that only my eldest learned the tricks of the trade while my second born observed in his gilded cage. Nevertheless, you have been a diligent and permissive host and for that, I thank you.

But as with all cares of life, this interlude must also come to a close. I languish here, in a world not quite your own but one crowded with the relics and remembrances of dead affection—a place I hope my son shall never be. It is ever father’s dream to see their child live and thrive but oftentimes, when that dream cannot be met, we shall settle for a quick death instead. Forget folly and all the zephyrs of love when I say all is vanity and nothing is fair.

Let my son know a little beauty before he dies—and watch over him, won’t you?

 

Fondly yours,

_Vincent_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “…crowded with the relics and remembrances of dead affection…” lifted from William Makepeace Thackeray’s ‘Vanity Fair’ 
> 
> A/N: A letter writ by Vincent and addressed to you directly, dear reader. Thanks so much to everyone who’s read, left kudos, or commented :)


	77. Author's Note

Hello everyone! First of all I want to apologize for these (very) slow updates. I’ve been steadily losing interest in Kuro for a while now and these last few chapters have been Bright Star’s swan song. I’d like to thank everyone who read, left kudos, or reviewed—you made this fic a lot of fun to write and I enjoyed interacting with every one of you :)

 

Will I ever return to this fic? Probably not but I’ll continue writing fanfiction, even if it may not be for Black Butler.

 

Till next time,

Peary


End file.
